Abyss
by Lunalelle
Summary: Hermione takes in a serpent familiar that turns into a man by night. Kidnapping, deception, and unsaid words. Very long time in coming: HermioneVoldemort. Some one-sided HermioneWormtail as well. A lot of three dimensional Death Eater action, too. Dark.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Abyss (pro)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** For all those people who wanted to see Maid of Many Names' fic completed, here is the fic. But it's mine, too. Since she only did first chapters for each, I think it was okay to write it. I tried to contact her and ask whether I could harvest, but she never replied to all seven of my attempts. Therefore, I simply credit her for the idea and ride with it.

**Author's Notes extended: **It has been years since I began this story, and I've edited the entire thing about two years later. Not much has changed – plot points have stayed the same. However, I've cut and/or changed several things.

_And what's the point of a revolution without general copulation?_ Weiss' Marat/Sade

Prologue 

The Forbidden Forest had an almost funereal quality of tall gravestones, eerily silent, save for the rustling of the leaves. Now and then the rustling was lower to the ground and the pelt or tail or abdomen of some dangerous creature would pass by the trails and clearings. The air itself was luminescent. Eyes glittered like jewels. Even in the stillness of early spring, sounds muffled in the denseness of the forest echoed and threw themselves like hallucinations away from their source. It was so easy to get lost. Every tree looked the same; any call was like a reflection, and help was hard to find. Beasts killed their own in mad rages like they killed their prey. Sentient plants stretched and waved their tendrils and exotic flowers enticingly. They knew to avoid the paths by now, fearing the heavy tread of disregarding feet or hooves of the creatures who wished to avoid animal entanglements.

Hermione was religiously following the path, like Harry had told her a year ago. Of course, Harry did not know she was here. No one did. She had been denied access to Order activities this summer, the members saying it was far too dangerous.

"_Sirius is dead, Hermione," Lupin said. "This is not something to take lightly."_

"_Do I take anything lightly? I don't even want to go into espionage or battle, I can just do research—"_

"_I'm sorry, Hermione, it's just not possible—"_

"_You think Lord Voldemort makes the distinction between adult and child?"_

_Lupin had to think for a minute. Then, in a low, measured voice, he replied, "I know it's difficult to explain to someone with such a hunger for knowledge and understanding, but even the research could be dangerous. You would not only have to study remedies, counterhexes, countercurses, and other wholesome defensive areas of magic, but you would also have to research Dark Curses, dangerous potions, dangerous creatures, and criminal psychology. The studying of those subjects can be detrimental. You are not one who could escape these studies unscathed."_

"_But _someone_ needs to—"_

"_We _have_ someone who studies. He has paid for it every day of his life. Professor Snape thought he was immune, too. Believe it or not, Hermione, Snape has not always been like this. Professor Dumbledore and I have discussed this issue extensively already, and we're not willing to make that sacrifice."_

"_What if _I_ am?"_

"_You'd better hope to the gods we don't find out," Lupin said mildly. "Don't be a fool, Hermione. Respect our reasons. You have your duties here."_

Hermione's eyes rolled skyward now at the memory. _They_ were foolish to think that she would just sit around doing nothing while Harry was in danger. When had she ever, when she knew without a doubt that she could make a significant contribution? And in this war, they needed all the significant contributions they could get. Dumbledore's Army had now extended to almost the entire school, save a few Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors, and the management had become too much for just her and Harry. Sure, she worked with the older kids and the occasional magic-stubborn younger-years, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't really a challenge. Looking up obscure spells, casting week-long incantations and violent spells, playing with fire, that was a challenge. Ordinary hexes anyone could research, but no one wanted to go through all the work and discipline to do so, that was nothing.

So she began sneaking around, invoking spells that allowed her into the Restricted Section, perusing confiscated books and book orders in Filch's office, occasionally invading Snape's private laboratory for the shelf of musty, ancient tomes of dark and dangerous potions. She had started these escapades with Harry and Ron's help, and they had been quite proud of her, though a little stunned at what a bad influence they were. But then she stopped informing them, and they thought it had just been a phase. After a while, they stopped asking her to join them on their own adventures, and Hermione realized that Harry and Ron were part of the Order without her. That hurt most of all, that she had completely been bypassed as vulnerable. So she endeavored to prove to herself that she was not.

And she was never caught.

Now, she was slinking like a criminal through the Forbidden Forest after midnight during a full moon with a thin wreath of wolfsbane round her neck, an amulus of collected stones forming a bracelet on her wrist, and a lycanthe drawn on her sinister palm. Silver rings boiled at the previous full moon to incantations of protection graced the fore and fourth finger of the same hand. In a small sheath on a silver girdle was a small silver dagger. Hermione was nothing if not prepared.

An old stab of conscience pricked at her eyes as she continued on her way to the liliaths, a poisonous flower that was deceptively beautiful as described by the legend that they originated from Aphrodite's kisses with Ares. Their petals were often used in the most dangerous of both potions and incantations. Enchantresses and guards of Chrestomanci carried the dust of the flower in small bags at their side. A similar bag hung on her girdle near her silver dagger. In her hands was a pair of dragon-hide gloves and a mortar and pestle to grind the flowers. An overwhelming sense of paranoia and wrongness tightened against her heart, and she stood stock still, listening. When she did not hear anything, she started on her way again, dismissing her intuition as faulty.

The sound of hoof beats froze her in her tracks. Ever since fifth-year, the centaurs had been positively malicious and violently defensive. There had been a thirty five percent increase in hospitalization due to centaur attacks. The rims of their hooves secreted a fluid that did not react well to ordinary medicine, so St. Mungo's consistently received a virtual cornucopia of information about centaurs, but the Enforcement Squads still could not keep them in check, especially in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione was hesitant to unsheathe her wand, aware of the threatening picture she would make, indicative that the centaurs' hatred was not baseless. She could only hope the centaur either would pass her or deem her unworthy of his attention.

She was unlucky in both respects.

The creature was not Bane, fortunately—the most vocal against centaur inequality amongst the magical community—but he was aged and held old-fashioned views of wizardkind. And it was a double blow that this was Firenze's grandfather, who had fought tooth and nail to keep his grandson from joining the human side to teach. Though unsuccessful, the old stallion continued to hold a grudge on the entire wizarding race for the decision his grandson had made.

"What goes there?" he called, coming up behind her on the trail.

Hermione fell to her knees in respectful deference. Better let him think she was submissive in his presence.

"A human? Here? Have we not made it clear to the wizards and witches of Hogwarts they are no longer welcome in this forest?" The centaur reared up on his graying hind legs, his hooves dulled but still invested with terrific power. Hermione ducked, cried out as the edge of the hoof struck her hair, grazing her cranium. She fell to her side in surprise.

"You are never content with your own world, but find it necessary to invade ours. Never any respect for the half-breeds. Substandard, are we? I'll show you substandard!"

He galloped to the side and started stomping to her sides, purposefully missing and frightening her by pressing his hooves near her head.

"Please, I came for magical supplies! That's all!" she yelled while dodging.

"Bah! Hang your excuses!"

"I don't want to defend myself, sir. Let me continue in peace."

But the old centaur's eyes had taken on a manic glint of a mind set in its ways, and her pleas fell upon deaf ears. Hermione took out her wand. A simple spell would not affect him, but a few of the more harmful ones would.

"_Serato amule!_" she yelled regretfully. A metal circle edged with serrated teeth whirled from her wand and began attacking the centaur. It sliced the horse belly and flank before the centaur had galloped back to the trees to more easily play the magical game. It took him seconds to cause the blade to embed itself in a sturdy trunk from which it was unable to withdraw.

The centaur leered at her. "Tried to kill me, eh?" he hissed, panting for breath.

"Only because you tried to kill me when I made it clear I didn't want to fight," Hermione said, face red and hair disheveled and escaping from its knot on the top of her head. She put her wand back in her sleeve as a sign of peace.

"Impudent human, you enter our lands and expect to be protected by your quaint sticks of wood? Take care. We centaurs have other magical designs." He began stepping toward her slowly. "What would happen if I took his horn," he patted his waist where a ram's horn was featured, "and called my brethren? You would not be so brave, I wager."

"I could Mute it," Hermione replied evenly.

Unease gave him pause. He fidgeted restlessly, nonplussed.

A rock flew over Hermione's head at the centaur. He stumbled back, startled. The girl had not thrown it.

"How dare you, you cowardly worm hole!" the centaur cried melodramatically as he galloped off to find his new offender.

Hermione shook her head, wishing she could have talked longer with him. It would have done well for him to see she truly was not there for seizure. And who or what had thrown that rock? That was the wrong thing to do to a centaur activist, as their demonstrations in Kent had shown. The night had rained with Obliviate. Hermione searched through the haze of the trees, but she could see no one. Anyway, the damage was done, and Hermione continued on her journey through the wood, avidly searching for the liliath patches.

It was another fifteen minutes of following the disappearing path, as she was beginning to lose all hope, that the moon shone through in a small clearing just off the path where the liliaths relished in the lunar power on which they lived. Their purple petals shimmered in dew drops and scented juices, cloyingly sweet to the nose—still, it invoked a powerful taste memory of honey in tea, and it called to her like a Venus Fly Trap. Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts of all emotions. Liliaths were known to provoke passionate responses, whether in anger, lust, sorrow, happiness, or sympathy. It dripped lethal feelings.

Though she was wary of the traditional Forbidden Forest illusions, Hermione's insides quivered with excitement. To be sure, she picked up a stick from the path and chucked it at the clearing. It fell cleanly into the flower patch.

Slowly, cautiously, she approached the poisonous flowers, donning her dragon hide gloves and readying her mortar and pestle.

Some of the older liliaths were sentient to an extent and would react violently to a near presence. Hermione wished she was wearing complete dragon hide costume, but the expenses had been astronomical and she had declined the "bargain offer." All that was between her and the poison was her clothing, which was not comforting.

Hermione hummed a soothing tune to appease the ancient ones. She was not sure how on tune she was, but the large blossoms only trembled harmlessly in the cold wind.

"I'm sure they prefer other genres. Your choice is far too modern," a voice said behind her.

Hermione resisted the urge to whirl around, cautious of the liliaths' sensitive nature. Instead, she decided to analyze the voice. It was a half whisper consisting of a little malice and breathlessness, a touch of sarcasm, and more than a hint of the dialect of intelligence. A cool tenor underlaid with a frigid metal, accentuated with a rasping that was familiar to Hermione, but she could not place it.

"I would doubt it, sir," Hermione murmured, taking her chance for sound. "And I have to ask you to keep your voice low."

"It seems as if we are on the same errand. I know how to act around liliaths." The voice became shape as a form with the shoulders of a man slid past her, his cloak trailing in the fallen leaves to the patch. The fabric of the cloak was aptly of dragon hide, the hood large and draped so that shadow obscured his face. "It is simple when one is prepared, as you are not." He clipped seven liliaths from their now writhing stems, caring not for their spitting venom. He flaunted the limp flowers at her.

"Some can't afford such preparation," Hermione shot back.

"Then some should not attempt such a threat on their life," he replied.

"I didn't ask for your concern," she hissed, sneaking up on the liliaths again.

"And I wasn't giving any." There was a lull as Hermione reached for the liliaths, balancing herself by extending her arm and gripping the mortar. The man gave an almost inaudibly intake of breath.

"I seemed to have made a grave error," he said softly. "I need that mortar and pestle."

"Funny, I need it, too. Otherwise the liliaths' power will drain out." Hermione responded almost absentmindedly now, reaching out at the now-warned flowers to pluck seven of them as well.

"Allow me. Step back slowly. My services for your materials."

Hermione jerked in surprise, and the man had to pull her back quickly so that he received the brunt of the corrosive defense. Hermione choked back a scream as a great splatter landed on her corduroys and began eating through the fabric at an alarming pace.

"Take it off unless you'd like a hole through your leg," the man ordered, dragging her to the path while holding fourteen dead liliaths.

Without such modesty as an ordinary emergency would afford, Hermione removed the corduroys and tightened her cloak around herself before anything could properly be seen, but a few drops had reached the skin, and Hermione bit her lip until it bled as the corrosive poison began its burning trail through her skin. It took a minute before it had weakened enough for impotency, and she knew she would have to cleanse her bloodstream when she returned to the castle.

Taking her wand in hand, she took her corduroys, and with a muttered "_Serato_," she had cut a wide circle around the contaminated area, then Repaired the damage. She turned away from the man, who watching her work bemusedly according to the bend of his neck; she knew the precarious position she was in and continued to hold the wand.

Her manner was almost austerely quick, precise, and practical, with the swift finesse of habit and the love of accuracy. In his favorable position of strength unseen, the man admired her level-headedness and sensibility in the face of poisoning, and potential ravishment. But he did not move until she had faced him again, fully clothed, though with a slight limp and blood staining the seamless corduroy. In her hand, undamaged, were the mortar and pestle.

"Here," she said. "I'll grind them." She held out her hand.

The man hesitated; then deliberately, almost balefully, the man put the flowers into the hand. He was much taller than she, and he stood less then an arm's length away, yet she could still not discern the features of his face, despite the perfect angle.

Hermione closed her fingers over the flowers and sat on a jutting tree root to ply her duty. The man sat on the ground, head bowed.

"I've a conversation piece, if you'd like to discuss it," the man said lightly.

"Go on," Hermione said, pressing the pestle to the first seven liliaths.

"Why are you, a student of Hogwarts, in the Forbidden Forest, after curfew, picking Class A Non-Tradable plants? And a prefect, no less?"

Hermione flushed a brilliant red as she realized she had worn a cloak with the Hogwarts crest and had pinned her prefect badge next to it on accident.

"I could ask the same of you," Hermione replied slowly.

"I'm a fugitive of the law. I have an excuse. What's yours?"

Hermione resumed her task, deciding not to push the law issue with a criminal who could throw her to the liliaths if he chose. "I'm studying their properties," she said in her most aloof manner.

"They're only in poisons and dark incantations…"

"Generally."

"Then you're studying the Dark Arts," the man said levelly, but the triumph behind his voice could not hide so easily.

"So what if I am," Hermione muttered, finished grinding the first seven liliaths. She poured the powder into the bag on her girdle and began on the second set for the man.

"It's awfully dangerous, you know," the man said in a rather slippery fashion that Hermione noted immediately and readied herself for an onslaught of questioning. "As a prefect, is it not your duty to prevent this sort of activity? Or have the recent displays of the Dark Arts piqued your interest?"

Hermione remained silent, and the man, satisfied with her response, settled back, twirling his wand idly around his long fingers hidden by liliath juice-splattered gloves. The man was almost disconcertingly covered, and Hermione was torn between wanting to see his face and fearing the result. Yes, better to remain as anonymous as possible.

"Here," she said, holding out the mortar and pestle. "We have more in the supply closet. I don't need it anymore."

The man chuckled as he rose, acting as though he had no need to hurry. He took the proffered equipment, but the hood was cocked slightly in a curious air. "Ravenclaw or Gryffindor? I'd choose the latter. You're either very stupid or very brave for being here. Not going to tell me? Well then, as we have properly hidden our identities from each other to the best of our abilities, I will take my gracious leave of you." He bent in a comedic parody of respect, and the curve and shadows of his dragon hide cloak on his body gave an impression of thinness.

Hermione dared not ask him to follow her to Hogwarts so that she would not have to confront other temperamental centaurs or any other unwelcome beasts.

She waited until his cloak was no longer discernable from the night before she gave a tremendous sigh of relief with breath she had not even known she was holding. Then she headed back to Hogwarts.

_Next time_, she told herself, _I'll buy the dragon hide cloak at least, and I won't wear anything that immediately identifies me with school. Too dangerous. And more weapons rather than defenses._

She reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest relatively unscathed, considering all factors involved. Her blood called to werewolves and acromantulas, and though she saw both, only a small acromantula bit her other leg and injected its weak venom into her body. It was small enough to kick it away, but its insides exploded like rock melon against a tree. Now she doubly limped, and as she passed into the kept lawn of Hogwarts, she felt the effects of the venom. It would knock her out for only a night, but she would have to get back to Gryffindor Tower without anyone seeing her.

"Will you make it or do you plan to fall unconscious to the ground as easy prey?" asked the man languidly, leaning as cool as anything against one of the trees on the dividing line.

Hermione now felt the freedom to jump.

"Invite me in, little student," the man mocked in a high voice.

"Were you following me?" Hermione slurred. Forming words was more difficult the later the hour and the more prolonged exposure to the acromantula venom.

"I knew you'd come this way, and it could not properly be called following."

"You can't come in," Hermione whispered, wavering where she stood. She began a drunken gait to the castle.

The man laughed while he almost lustily watched Hermione stumble, fall, and ultimately go unconscious. Then he whirled back into the forest, leaving Hermione in the moonlit night to the mercy of nature.

Hermione did not stir from where she lay, but nothing but nonmagical insects came near her so close to the castle. She woke early enough in the morning to creep away before anyone saw her, and she cloistered herself into a laboratory to tend her injuries and truly sleep.

These were some of the last healings she gave to herself that left scars.


	2. Chapter 1

**Title:** Abyss (01)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. These next two chapters closely resembled MoMN's, but I made them more my own.  
**Author notes:** Chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 1**

Hermione's anxiety was now reaching its peak as she waited in the long line at Flourish and Blotts. Her vacation had been full with a trip to Italy, then Switzerland as a finale before her graduation, and while she thoroughly absorbed and enjoyed the vacation, she had not visited a single wizarding alley to buy her new books and supplies or replace old ones. It was now an evening before she would board Hogwarts Express, and she was frantic to get everything done. She had the enormous pile of books to buy, not to mention having to stop by the apothecary, Gringotts to replenish her money supply, and Madam Malkin's for new robes fit for Head Girl.

Yes, Head Girl. The badge glistened next to her Hogwarts crest. Her escapades the previous year had obviously gone completely unnoticed, which was slightly discouraging on the part of the Order. That she was able to sneak about dabbling into the Dark Arts almost made her feel as if they deserved to be deprived of what services she could have rendered to them. She had found out so much without being pulled to the other side. Of course, she had lost her temper those few times, but they had been understandable. She had been conducting an experiment in the hotel room while in Switzerland when her hair had kept falling into her eyes, finally drifting so completely from the back of her head that it dipped into the liquid on which she was working, thus contaminating it beyond potency. Finally fed up with the years of problems with her hair, she had picked up a knife next to her—still dirty with cricket intestines—and took it to her hair.

The results had been a horrid butchery with locks strewn over the floor and Hermione's hair sticking out to the sides. Hermione's parents had been saintly patient with her and took her to a hair stylist to get it cut in a more orderly fashion. She had come out with her hair curled out at the sides of her face in a semi-trendy rumpled fashion – at least, that's what it started out as in the salon. The stylist had told her if she did not want to spend too much time on it, she could use gel and hairspray, but she would not recommend it. Hermione decided drying her hair was better and even quicker in most respects, even though it still ended up frizzy. It just looked less bushy than it used to. Everyone was happier in the end, though the Grangers watched their daughter a lot more closely around knives.

Then there had been the day she had gotten so frustrated at not being able to understand anyone that windows all along the street on which the Grangers were standing shattered. In the national newspaper there was talk about an insane sniper. The news even reached America, and Hermione was given an international warning for using magic, though it had been accidental. Hermione responded with guilty chagrin and tried to limit her Dark activities to a minimum. They tended to stress her more than they should have. But it had not been the Arts themselves that had caused the fits, Hermione told herself emphatically.

The person in front of her had misplaced his change purse, and he had no less than twenty seven pockets on his person. Hermione tapped her foot impatiently. A number of curses in their phonetic spelling flashed through her mind as inappropriate for this kind of annoyance. She had never spoken these curses aloud, but she knew how they would sound at least.

Finally, she reached the counter and gave the bookkeeper exact change. He thanked her with a sigh of relief after all the unpleasant customers he had served that day. Hermione smiled at him as she left. She immediately went back to Gringotts to exchange for forty Galleons, four times more than supplies would cost. Dress robes did not come cheap.

Her arms ached with the weight of the books, and, doubly glad she was in Diagon Alley and Head Girl—which allowed certain privileges at times—she Reduced the bag to put them in her purse. Thank Dumbledore for small favors.

The apothecary was quick enough. Not many dallied lest the smell permeate their clothes. Hermione personally liked it, but she hurried just the same to Madam Malkin's.

"Be right with you, dearie," called Madam Malkin through a mouthful of pins. She finished the robes she was working on and came over to Hermione.

"What'll it be?" Madam Malkin asked. "Formal wear for the Head Girl?"

Hermione opened to mouth to answer, but froze when she realized what Madam Malkin had said. "How did you—?" She wasn't actually wearing wizarding clothing; her cloak with the badge was in her wardrobe back at the Leaky Cauldron.

"Oh, news travels quickly, dear. Well, I think I know exactly what you need, both for everyday wear and for special occasions. You can't go around Hogwarts with a Head Girl badge over substandard robes. Come along." And the small woman dragged her to the dressing platform, sweeping her wand up Hermione's body for precise measurements. Then, with a sharp wave and spell, Hermione's Muggle clothing was replaced with the most wonderful, flattering dress robes Hermione had ever seen.

The skirts and billowing sleeves were medieval and modest, but the bodice was as tight and encasing as a lenient corset. The robes themselves were warm navy blue velvet embroidered with a colorful griffin on her bodice. But despite the fullness and prudence everywhere else, her chest felt terribly naked.

"I—I can't—," Hermione stammered.

"You look beautiful, dear," Madam Malkin said, arranging the folds of the skirt. "Perfect for formal events, and Head Girls can be in many. Now let's see what else we can find for you in casual wear."

It took a ridiculous forty five minutes when it would usually take ten, but Hermione was now furnished with five satin robes, an open velvet robe over a crushed velvet dress, and silk robes that reminded her more of drapes, but all looked great. Hermione sighed. Despite her general aversion to thinking about how she looked or caring about how others thought of her, her inner girl was quietly elated at having good clothes in which she looked good. Maybe Draco Malfoy would be speechless all year as he had been for the entire Yule Ball. He had lost his base after her teeth had been corrected.

Yet again, she had bought more than she could handle, and she Reduced these new packages as well.

She had one more stop, and this one made her heart palpitate apprehensively. Aurors and other Magical Law Enforcement units had really cracked down on the even mild Dark Arts equipment after the end of fifth year. It was nearly impossible to find the information necessary for her studies. The Restricted Section, plus a secret library connected flush against the known library provided a substantial amount of literature, but they were not providing the kind of depth for which she was looking. The only way to find such profundity was in a book completely devoted to the Dark Arts. In this day and age, these were very hard to come by without a tremendous price. Hermione was prepared to pay.

The junk shop was sandwiched between two very prominent stores so that many overlooked the thin entrance, but Hermione slipped in with purpose. She went straight to the manager, who was all by his lonesome at the front desk.

He was small, slightly balding and gray, and he constantly blew his nose with a purple handkerchief.

"What can I do for you?" he asked in a rather nasal tone.

"Order number 1381," Hermione answered promptly.

The manager did a double-take, presumably to see if she had horns above her ears or a forked talk he could not see. When he failed to find anything more demonic than a freckle, he shrugged and lifted up a plank off the floor, then brought a box into view.

"Careful with that, missy," he warned. "Whoever asks, it did not come from me. They're Illusioned, and you might be a bit… unexpected to them, but I can't guarantee anything. On your own head be it."

Hermione bowed her head. "Thank you."

The manager hesitated, then murmured, "Good luck."

She smiled and exited.

She felt jumpy as she passed by more and more baleful Aurors at corners and entrances to shops. Her fingers could not stop plucking at her robes or running her fingers through the bangs at the side of her face. But even people who had not trespassed in any way were also anxious confronted with law enforcement, unnatural for them and discouraging with their suspicious scarred scowls.

For a semblance of normalcy, she went to the ice cream parlor for a strawberry-dipped chocolate fudge cone with almonds. It made her feel better.

A bit calmer than before, she headed back to the Leaky Cauldron where she was boarded until tomorrow. Diagon Alley was usually crowded the day before returning to Hogwarts, and Tom had to add a few rooms to fit the demand, mostly from Muggle-born families.

The rooms had been condensed, but they were still comfortable, and Hermione collapsed on her bed. She Expanded her bag of books and began reviewing her texts. She skimmed through the books until two. She chose not to take out her illicit box of forbidden books. She was too afraid that at full size they would set off an anti-Dark Arts device. Her hands itched to turn their pages and study the best information from experienced minds, albeit they experienced everything about which they wrote. It vaguely struck her that by purchasing their works, she was supporting their activities with royalties, but she had to get first-hand accounts to analyze their psychology and study the actions in detail. Know thy friend, but know thine enemy better. How could one do that without completely submersing oneself within the subjects, including their lives, their minds? She wished she could interview Professor Snape, but the prospect of approaching him with such a topic in mind was less than wise considering Snape's notorious temperament and his position within the Order.

She could not get the Dark books from her head, and she began to worry. Was she addicted to that sort of danger? Were Professor Lupin and Professor Dumbledore right?

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions_, she thought as she dimmed the lantern and climbed under the covers.

888

The next morning found her head under her pillow to block against the onslaught of knocking at her door, Tom with his wake-up call.

"Sorry, miss," he apologized, then went on to wake up other students of Hogwarts.

Hermione groaned, but the circumstances were all against her. She was Head Girl and had to be on the train early to set a good example. She was Head Girl and had to see everyone onto the train. She was Head Girl and had to prep the prefects.

Most of all, she was awake and couldn't go back to sleep.

She went by Apparition, for which she was extremely grateful because it meant she could get up at the last minute, and landed in an empty girls' cubicle that had 'conveniently' gone out of order the night before.

The Platform was nearly deserted. Only a few students with overly anxious parents were milling around, waiting for more people to come so they would feel comfortable getting into the train with everyone else.

Hermione had no such qualms and immediately boarded the train. Ernie Macmillan, the new Head Boy, was there waiting for her.

"Congratulations," he said, holding out his hand to shake hers. "I don't think anyone doubted it, Hermione."

Hermione took the extended hand, forcing a smile onto a mouth that longed to yawn. She did so after her hand was free.

"Studying your texts late?" Ernie asked understandingly. "Me, too. Doesn't look very difficult, though. Much of it I studied last year, and I'll reckon you've prepared yourself more for university levels than seventh-year, correct?"

"To a degree," Hermione said carefully.

"Well, I suppose we should patrol the platform, shall we?"

Though Ernie's pompousness was a little wearing at times, she could not think of a better Head Boy. The only person Hermione had ever known with his kind of dedication to both his studies and the rules was Percy. Except Ernie had more common sense and an open mind. He was all right.

They left the compartment together and split out the door. More people had come in and already kids were on the train. Hermione left these to Ernie and disembarked. In the mere five minutes Hermione had been in the Head compartment, the Platform had crowded to a remarkable extent.

"Hey, Mudblood, can't wait to see your Potions professor again?" Malfoy hissed in her ear.

Draco had developed the ridiculous idea in the previous year that she was having 'liaisons' with Professor Snape because of all those evenings brewing with him for N.E.W.T. levels. She hated having to ask for his assistance and criticism—the former he was nasty in giving, but with the latter he was all too forthcoming—but the fact remained that there were not many potions brewers in the world at the caliber of Professor Snape. Still, Malfoy was harmless when he thought Snape was doing all the naughty.

Draco lost his balance as the basket in his hands shifted violently. He swore and stumbled, just barely staying on his feet. Hermione eyed the basket warily; a furious hissing was coming from inside it. Draco shook it roughly in annoyance.

Hermione winced. She did not care what was in the basket, Draco had no right to treat it so cruelly. She quickly went through the list in her mind of permitted pets at Hogwarts. The cat or owl or toad was out. The hissing did not seem feline. The only other pets she could think of for which the restriction had been waived was Ron's rat, Lavender's rabbit, and Flora Jones' fruit bat. Draco Malfoy certainly was _not_ supposed to have whatever creature he carried.

Sometimes being Head Girl had its advantages.

"What is in that basket, Malfoy?" she asked in an authoritative manner that instantly planted a derogatory sneer on his face.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he snarled.

Hermione snatched the basket from him. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would like to know. I'll bet ten to one you've got a Slytherin mascot, and Professor Dumbledore never informed me of it, therefore it's forbidden."

"You can't do—," he sputtered indignantly.

"I'm Head Girl, Malfoy," Hermione said calmly, pushing her face in front of his. "You're just a prefect. You answer to me, and I answer to the Headmaster. I now intend to confiscate this as the Headmaster ordered."

"You can't—"

"Watch me!" Hermione turned on her heel. She stopped by to inform Ernie that she was confiscating a creature and that the train was not to leave until she got back from Diagon Alley. The Menagerie would no doubt provide a refuge to it.

"Feels like I was just here," Hermione muttered dryly, pushing through the streets in a hurried fashion to the Magical Menagerie. The snake had begun practically spitting in fury, and many of the animals protested as she ran in like a whirling dervish in one of the her plain robes—out of habit—hair curling around her face and an irate snake hissing like the very devil in her hands.

"Goodness gracious me," said the clerk, "what on earth—"

"I need your manager to confiscate. . ."

"Just a minute," the clerk stammered, quelling at the prospect of meeting an angry snake. He rushed into the back.

Hermione set the basket onto the counter. The snake had settled down somewhat and was now rubbing its scales restlessly against the weave.

A sizable man stepped out from behind a curtain, rubbing his hands together.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the man asked. He ran a hand over his bald spot as he examined the basket from a safe distance. "We don't traffic much in snakes, what with the Dark Lord and all, but let's see what you have."

"Careful," Hermione warned, "I don't think it's very happy I took it away." The basket shook again.

"Looks like a big one." Hermione read his name tag: Conan Fitzgerald, General Manager. A big meaty hand grasped the top of the basket and pulled it off, wary of the sudden thrust of the snake's head. The strike missed and the snake bit down on air. "Feisty one, too. He must be cold, too; this basket isn't near catering to his needs. Jerry, my hook.

"It's been a while since I've looked at a fine serpent specimen, and this one looks as healthy and lively as anything. And handsome, too, look at the gloss of his scales."

Hermione had a perfect opportunity to see the slick brown back fading to a mottled cream on the belly as the snake rose menacingly from the basket—the hiss itself was more like a growl really, and it scared her to death—hooded and mouth open. It finally halted at five feet high, almost as tall as Hermione. Both she and Mr. Fitzgerald took a step back.

"You confiscated this from a student?" Mr. Fitzgerald asked incredulously. "What we've got here is a beautiful king cobra, doubtlessly wizard bred. He's got to be a good fifteen feet. Jerry, he's coming out of the basket, I need the hook. Careful, missy."

The snake uncoiled, still swaying upright and began slithering from the basket, its eyes determinedly on Hermione. Hermione could not look away; they were odd maroon eyes, glinting with a subtle intelligence. Hermione struggled to stay calm as it neared.

"Easy now, milord, we mean no harm," the manager directed to the snake; its ribbing had begun to pull in again, but its mouth remained open and it continued to advance. "Always address a dangerous animal with deference, missy. Maybe you'd better placate it; it's fixed on you."

Hermione's eyes were wide and her hands were shaking, her robes in tight fists, but the cobra was within striking distance, so she ventured a timid, "I was only doing my duty. Don't take it out on me."

He withdrew only slightly, but continued swaying.

"So he's an intelligent one," Mr. Fitzgerald said softly, admiringly.

Jerry did not come in, but he slid the hook through the crack of the curtain. Mr. Fitzgerald took it in his hands slowly and carefully. Hermione chanced a look. It was a standard snake hook except it could circle around the entire circumference behind the snake's head when applied, a little magical addition.

"Okay, easy now, milord, I'm just going to. . ." The snake whipped around, glaring now at the manager, but with a deftness that surprised the snake, the hook came right under the ribs and clamped around tight. The cobra immediately began writhing and hissing in its growling way as though he was being murdered. He stretched to bite, but he could not reach anyone so fettered. The manager stretched him out and grabbed his tail.

"Yes, finely bred indeed," Mr. Fitzgerald said, holding him out for Hermione to see. Hermione took another step backward. The snake's eyes were practically smoldering.

"I'd avoid his eyes, missy. The wizard bred ones are more captivating than others." The snake still fought half-heartedly, but if Hermione did not know better, she'd think it was almost smug. "I'd love to know who had this first, missy. These poisonous ones don't come cheap, and I'd reckon that in the wrong hands this serpent would be confiscated by more than just a Head Girl."

"As much as I'd love to divulge the boy's identity, we're sworn to silence about misdemeanors."

"Well, it would help, because I can't keep this one, missy. Wizard bred, it ought to go home in private protection. The law won't allow this sort for public enterprise. Sorry, missy, but I can't take it. Beautiful, though," he murmured longingly.

"Then where should I take it?" Hermione asked, a tension developing in her stomach as she anticipated the worst.

"Well, the way I see it, you've got two options—you can turn it in to an Auror, and they'll likely have it put down. Or you can take it to Hogwarts and have Dumbledore decide. If all else fails, it will probably find a home in the Forbidden Forest."

"But I just confiscated it, sir, I can't very well bring it with me," Hermione protested. "And it's poisonous, how can I—?"

"Snake-charming spell, fairly routine," Fitzgerald interrupted. "Think you're up to it? It needs a great deal of power behind it."

Hermione did some quick thinking. She wished she could talk to Dumbledore now, but the Express was most likely getting impatient and she did not want the snake to be put to sleep just for being born a serpent, so she sighed and said, "What's the spell?"

"Wonderful, missy. They're wonderful familiars, someone is going to love it."

"I have a familiar, but he's at home. Please, Mr. Fitzgerald, what is the spell?"

He held out the snake and said, "It's '_pareo_,' full circle swish. Go on, it's getting restless again."

Which was a dramatic understatement. It was practically thrashing its way through the hook, and the manager was nearly losing his tail.

"Missy!" the manager urged.

Hermione unsheathed her wand and pointed it at the cobra. With a deliberate stroke of her wand, she declared, "_Pareo_."

A flash of green light encircled the snake, then extended out until it enveloped Hermione in its glow. It smelled of vanilla extract. Then it disappeared as though it had never been there.

"Well, missy," said the manager, in awe of the limp snake in his clutches, "I've never seen it work like that."

"Did it work?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, yes, the green light is indicative, but this one must be a powerful familiar. You sure you don't want it? It'll complement you wonderfully."

"No, thank you," Hermione replied. "How can you tell he's safe now?"

"Well, until you apply the countercharm, it cannot harm you in any way, it can't leave you, you have full control on how far from you it can be. Unfortunately, there still isn't any way to communicate with it. You don't happen to know a Parselmouth, do you?" he joked. His smile faded when she responded in the affirmative.

"Good luck then, missy. Here," he released the hook and the snake slid from the restraint. "Call to it."

"Milord," she whispered hesitantly, feeling a little silly. "I've a train to catch, so if you could. . ."

Obediently, the snake slithered to her and began wrapping itself around her from the legs to her shoulders. Hermione was stiff with fright.

"Don't worry, missy, he's just trying to get warm. He'll not harm you." He took out a sheet of parchment and began writing a note permitting her to carry the snake to Hogwarts. "I've some equipment, free of charge, you might like to have, and you need to know its habits."

"Could you write those down, too? I am quite frankly late for the Hogwarts Express, and it's waiting for me."

"Of course. I understand completely, missy. Jerry!" he yelled, then whispered the paraphernalia he wanted Jerry to fetch.

A few minutes later, Hermione had Apparated back onto the Platform 9 ¾ where Ernie was wringing his hands in worry. When he saw the giant cobra wrapped around Hermione, he gulped and took a step back.

"I thought. . . I thought. . ." Ernie stammered.

"Not one word, Ernie," Hermione said, thoroughly aggravated by the whole affair.

"But. . ."

"I have a note, and I'm going straight to Headmaster Dumbledore when we get to Hogwarts. Now please, I have nothing on me, you don't see anything."

Ernie raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, Hermione, but the prefects are waiting for a briefing. Do you want me to do it if you're. . . like that? You know. . ."

Hermione made to hug Ernie for understanding, but caught herself in time. "I'd appreciate that," she said, brushing her hair from her eyes, very aware of the extra weight she was carrying on her arm.

"You go on, Hermione. I'll talk to the front and we'll get started. I hope you know what's going on with that—that. . ." he could not finish, so he just boarded the train. Hermione followed him shortly after, struggling with the case of supplies Mr. Fitzgerald had given her.

She opened the compartment Harry and Ron reserved for themselves.

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, jumping back at the vision of the snake dropping from her frame and rearing up at Harry, hood open again.

Harry scrambled away, hissing furiously at the snake, which caused the growl coming from the cobra to grow louder.

"It hates me," said Harry bluntly, still against the wall. Hermione had taken the snake's lower neck and pulled it back. She was muttering to it gently. "Where on earth did it come from?"

"I confiscated it from Malfoy. He probably wanted to poison you in your sleep," Hermione said.

"It really doesn't like me, 'Mione," Harry insisted. "It keeps saying. . . well, not really saying, more like a picture of biting me and killing me on the spot. It's not comforting, Hermione. Don't bring it _in_ here!"

Hermione tutted and sat as far away from Harry as she could. "Don't worry, Harry, I can keep it from you. Watch." She pulled it around her waist, and it curled closer, taking in her warmth. "I'm not going to keep it or anything."

"Hey," said Malfoy from the compartment door, "that's mine." He grabbed for it, but the cobra lunged for him. It was only sheer luck that it hit the door rather than Malfoy himself. Hermione did not have an antidote for the venom readily available.

"It obviously does not want you anymore. I'm putting it into the Headmaster's hands, Malfoy. I recommend you return to the prefects' compartment."

"My father gave me that," Malfoy said sullenly, now on his guard.

"And I'm taking it. Your father should know better." Hermione turned away from the boy, but the cobra kept growing, so Malfoy took advantage of the dismissal and left.

"Are you sure about this, 'Mione?" Ron asked, nervous at the way the cobra had suddenly relaxed and slithered more tightly around her.

"I'm not going to keep it, Ron," she repeated firmly. "There's no reason for anyone to be concerned at all. Besides, aren't _you_ supposed to be in the prefects' compartment?"


	3. Chapter 2

**Title:** Abyss (02)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** Here's where I begin to deviate from MoMN's 'Degree.' Just so you know, I'm not ignorant by saying the cobra growls. In fact, the cobra has such a low hiss that it really does sound like it is growling. Interesting little fact I learned in my research. **Extended:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 2**

"Why don't you keep it, Miss Granger?" said Professor Dumbledore mildly. "You seem to be missing your other one, and if this one favors you..."

"But look at it, Professor," Hermione said, frantic. She undid her cloak; it had grown windy during the train ride. As was customary, bad weather was brewing. When she set the cloak on the nearest chair, Dumbledore gave a quick intake of breath. He had not expected a snake quite so large or quite as known for being dangerous. Dumbledore stood and approached it cautiously.

"How have you managed to tame it?" he asked. The snake had begun to move, lifting its head from her shoulder and slithering forward in midair toward the Headmaster.

"Snake-charming spell. It can't hurt me."

"Really," Dumbledore muttered, adjusting his glasses. He reached out with an expert hand and caught the head. The snake's ribs expanded again, and it continued sliding from Hermione to further prepare itself, but Hermione wrapped her hand around his middle, and with her other hand, she began to stroke the scales in a soothing manner. Under her fingers to which he was spellbound, the snake relaxed and some of the tension left its body, as much as he did not want to let it. He did not withdraw the hood.

Dumbledore stared at the snake's face, at the snake's eyes. The head was trembling in anger under Dumbledore's staying hand.

"Interesting," he said under his breath. Then, straightening, "It seems to take to you well, and it isn't at all pleased with me. And obviously, it isn't pleased with Mr. Malfoy either. Is Crookshanks at home?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, embarrassed, "he's grown quite enamored of my mum's affections."

Dumbledore checked and released the cobra, which wrapped sullenly around Hermione's neck again.

"And this familiar seems quite enamored of you. I don't dare let a familiar like this loose in the Forbidden Forest: centaurs seem to be able to tell good ones. He would be trampled before the week's end. There is no one else I would trust to give better care to the snake than you. Hagrid isn't quite as adept at the smaller, more—ah, excuse me—delicate creatures. It is a bit unorthodox—we've maybe had two snakes as familiars since Tom Riddle—but I will permit you to keep the familiar as your own."

"But…" Hermione began.

Dumbledore raised a hand to silence her. "Take an opportunity when it knocks, Hermione. Mr. Fitzgerald was correct when he said the only other option was to turn it in to the authorities in whose hands it will die. Keep it, Hermione." He put a hand on her shoulder and led her to the door. "It can't hurt, and you might have much more authority with him to emphasize your threats as Head Girl." His eyes twinkled merrily. "You look more forbidding with a large cobra around your neck. We might make it a tradition. Good night, Hermione." He set her on her way down the hall and went back into his office.

At Dumbledore's departure, the cobra's head slithered forward to look at Hermione.

"Well," she said wearily, "it seems we're stuck with each other. Mind being the only snake ever allowed in Gryffindor Tower?" No response. Hermione pulled gently at the body wrapped around her.

"I know you need warmth, but it's still warm on the stone and you're a bit heavy..." The snake, sensing her motivation, slipped in loose folds from her, falling to the ground. He raised himself to his full five-foot height, unhooded, and waited.

"If you get cold, you can come back on. Follow me."

She could not deny that strolling down the corridors with a cobra upright almost as tall as she and still longer than ten feet on the ground was... interesting. Students skirted to the side, even young Slytherins. As they went, the snake snapped playfully at some of the more twitchy students.

"Behave," she hissed under her breath, and the snake glared at her, but did not menace anyone further.

"Checkmate," she said to the Fat Lady. While the portrait opened, the Fat Lady did a double-take on Hermione's companion.

"Now what do you think you're…?"

"Thank you," Hermione interrupted, briskly stepping through the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"Hermione-e-e-e," Ron began, jumping toward her, then falling back. "What are you doing with that h-h-here?"

"Dumbledore told me keep it because, well..."

"Do you actually like it?" Harry asked from the safety of the couches.

"Not really, but I don't want to give it to the Aurors. He can't help he was born a serpent instead of a cat or an owl."

Ron snorted. "So, going for animal rights now, Hermione?"

"No," Hermione insisted. "It's just... I don't know. He's a magnificent animal; he does _not_ deserve to die, by any means."

Harry shook his head. "Your funeral. You _do_ realize it's poisonous?"

"Snake-charming spell, Harry, it can't hurt me."

"No, but it can hurt everyone else."

"Then I'll have to prevent it from doing so," said Hermione matter-of-factly.

"Are you crazy, Hermione?" she heard from more than one person as she pushed through the first-day throng. The snake felt the hostility because it hooded halfway and growled softly, glaring sullenly at the gaping Gryffindors. Both human and familiar gave a great sigh of relief when the door to the Head Girl's private room closed behind them.

"I get the gnawing felling you're going to be more trouble than you're worth," Hermione muttered, stroking the head gently until the hood had receded and the snake had drifted to the ground. "You really are beautiful, you know. Your eyes are creepy, but you're still beautiful."

She dug into her pockets for the letter that Mr. Fitzgerald had given her on care for the creature.

"Hm, says you're diurnal. I wouldn't have expected it. In that case, maybe I should prepare your quarters."

Hermione crossed to the foot of her bed where her trunk and the large tank Mr. Fitzgerald had sent through expensive Floo Mail. It was almost as big as the bed itself. Hermione tsked, then used a Hover Charm to safely transport the glass tank to the side of the room farthest from the window to prevent the temper of the elements from affecting the warmer environment. The tank was low and left room for only minimal maneuverability. It was meant for rest, not living. Hermione sighed.

"That good for you, milord?" Hermione asked.

Using Hermione as a foundation, the snake slithered into the warmed tank with a quiver of contentment. He looked up at her expectantly once inside.

"Oh," Hermione cried. With a flick of her wand, she transformed a piece of coal into a group of lizards. She magically herded them into the tank, and the snake took his meal of one of them.

Through the glass, Hermione watched the attack and sighed. "That ought to last you. I'll probably need some water and food for the lizards as well.

After finishing the cobra's maintenance, Hermione and the snake stared at each other. The snake had a lump in his previously smooth, sleek body that disconcerted Hermione. One final wave and the top latched to the tank.

"I wonder..." Hermione mused. "What am I going to do with you?"

The snake did not answer her, but curled delicately under a small shrub.

"And a name," Hermione continued to herself as she stood and went to her trunk, retrieving her school supplies and night things. She went to the bathroom and took a soak. It was smaller than the prefects' bath, but this one had been constructed with only one occupant in mind, and for one person, the bath was quite spacious. She allowed the stress to wash away with the complimentary fragrant soaps available. She would leave washing her hair until morning. After the bath, Hermione got ready for bed as though nothing was different. But there was that odd shift of air currents that seemed to make the snake's presence felt.

"This might take some getting used to," she muttered under her breath as she settled down at the table next to the window. Already the sky had yielded a few drops of rain and thunder rumbled menacingly in the distance. It was appropriate for her activities. She wanted to read up on the Nightmare Curse and its more effective and longer-lasting corresponding potion. Hermione rarely ever remembered her dreams, so that prospect of reading first-hand accounts on both sides of the wand was intriguing. Taking an apprehensive look around her, and seeing nothing but the snake, she began her study.

… _the results of the incantation produce a single nightmare in the same night. The dream will consist of the people, places, and objects in your life that you fear the most. It is vivid, lucid, and linear, and the victim is forced to endure the dream until its established plot has concluded, generally in a dream-death. There have been cases where the dream was so saturated with fear, the victim died in his sleep, woke up with convulsions, covered in a dehydrating cold sweat, heart rate dangerously increased, or in shock._

_The incantation is eclipsed by the Nightmare Potion, which attacks the body as well as the mind so that the dreams do not only have a familiar time velocity, but also feels as though they are not dreams at all. The entire sensory area of the brain is employed and manipulated. The brain activity resembles that of a person asleep, nothing more. _

_Once the victim awakens, sometimes weeks, months, or even years later, they are able to remember every scene with uncanny detail. Often under the potion, the subject comes back to reality severely, but curably, insane. Instances of this reaction usually are paranoia, schizophrenia, melancholia, and hypochondria…_

Hermione was not sure when she fell asleep, but some time through the reading of the primary sources with drowsy fascination, her head slumped down onto the yellowed pages and her lids fluttered and shut.

The snake, however, continued to watch her, eyes slitted and tongue flitting through his mouth, tasting the air. When it was sure the girl was asleep, it rose to the top of the tank and maneuvered its body so that the latch to the lid opened. Undulating its powerful muscles, the top lifted, and the snake slid through the crack. It suppressed a wince at the cooler air. Its tail caught, but it managed to pull it out. The top made a noise as it fell back into place; the snake heard the sharp thump and turned sharply to the girl. She did not even move.

A glint of light lit its maroon eyes, and it raised itself to its full height. It stood there as if waiting. If someone were watching it, its appearance would seem to be widening, lengthening. After a bit, it almost seemed to sprout arms and its tail seemed to split into legs. But it was only illusion because now there was a man, only a man, no sign of a cobra anywhere.

From the sleeve of his robes, he retrieved his wand. His eyes, an odd color for a snake, had not changed, and they looked even more out of place on a man. The man himself was strange to the point of freakishness. His skin was almost purely white, and it clung to the bones of his face. Along his limbs, it set the elegant, wiry strength of muscle and bone into sharp relief. His robes, made for a larger frame in accordance with his height, draped over him, accentuating his thinness. His hand, like an albino spider, grasped his wand with a barely harnessed fury.

First, as he had instructed, Lucius had given him to his son, who treated everything as thought it could easily be replaced. He had obviously overestimated Draco's ability of inductive reasoning, for Draco had interpreted the action as being given a pet, and Lucius had not dissuaded him from the idea. His almost lipless mouth curled slightly. However, the Malfoys were useful; their desire for the annihilation of the empire was to be praised. That did not mean they were competent enough to handle such important non-torture-related responsibilities, and Lord Voldemort would take that to heart next time, after severely punishing both father and son for their blunder.

Because of their mistake, Voldemort had found himself unfed, cold, and uncomfortable in a basket inadequate for a snake his size. Draco had shaken him, bumped him both accidentally and deliberately into walls and people, unaware he was making a certain Dark Lord very, very angry. Then, the Malfoy boy had to be so inane as to flaunt his possession of a forbidden familiar in front of an obviously capable but vengeful Mudblood Head Girl, thus losing him within a week. Then the girl, careful, but not careful enough in her hurry, had taken him to a veritable pet shop where he had been held against his will by another Mudblood who knew precisely how to handle him. Then—insult upon injury—the great Lord Voldemort had been bested by a snake-charming spell!

The humiliation, though nearly more than he could bear, was easily remedied. He would kill the girl, then steal into Slytherin and… reprimand the Malfoy brat. Not to kill him, no. Death would be too swift.

He raised his wand toward Hermione and said clearly, in an uncracked tenor, "Avada K--"

Lord Voldemort's face contorted as the words caught in his throat. He tried again. "Av--"

Voldemort blinked. He attempted to open his mouth again, but he was anticipated and his lips refused to move.

Ever since he had first learned the Killing Curse, he had never hesitated at its use. Now, when he was least likely to find a reason to spare the child, he could not even say the incantation.

Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he had better try another spell.

"Sen-sen-sen--" he stuttered. His wand arm fell forcefully to his side in frustration. Never ever had a spell failed him before.

He continued his morbid experiment, trying to cast every hex, jinx, or curse he knew. None of them worked. Voldemort threw the wand to the floor where it clattered, wood against wood.

Voldemort froze as Hermione stirred, her arm knocking a closed bottle of ink off the desk. Voldemort, just reacting, knelt to the floor and caught it. Then, in a sudden revelation, Voldemort picked up his wand and cast a Hovering Charm on the ink bottle. It floated and returned back to the desk.

His eyes widened. It appeared that the snake-charming spell had done more than tame him—how could he forget that ridiculous docility—but also kept him from hurting her.

"Who would have thought?" Voldemort said softly, walking to the girl. His fingers closed gently around the back of her neck. He found he could not apply painful pressure, but his thumb rested in the hollow of her throat where her blood pulsed temptingly. "So fragile," he whispered. "Dare you bare your neck to me?" Her face looked distantly familiar.

_Harry Potter_, he thought grimly, _she's a friend of Harry Potter. I don't doubt that I've seen them together over these last two years. Well, little friend of Potter's, it seems you have complete control over me. Just you wait, though. When I find a way to remove this spell, you'll be the first I come after._

His hand brushed her cheek in a mockery of a caress. Then he returned his wand to his sleeve where it touched the skin of his inner wrist, and he changed back into his newly acquired Animagus form. He supposed dimly that no one would be at all surprised at the shape he assumed, and the predictability bothered him. A little. He did enjoy the animal.

He gave one last glare full of contempt in the general direction of the Slytherin common room, and he slithered to the bed. He was not properly cold, but he was cool, and the warmth of the blankets might as well be put to some purpose.

888

When Hermione woke up the next morning, she was sore with an ache in her neck and ink on her face from lying on the book. She stretched against the kinks. Then she started when she realized the cobra was staring straight at her from atop a pile of her books.

"Well, what do you want? Everything you need is in the tank. Hey, how'd you get out anyway?"

The snake stuck his tongue at her. Hermione stuck hers back at him.

"I still don't know what to call you," Hermione said, reaching out and stroking his neck. "Think you could take it if Harry talked to you?"

The snake withdrew sharply.

"_I_ can't talk to you, and maybe Harry can tell me something about you. For instance, why and how you left your tank. If you don't want to go in, you don't have to. I can make a door." Hermione peered down at her book, lifted her eyes to the snake, whose head had not moved, and shut it in a bout of paranoia. The snake seemed to grin at her.

Hermione went into her private lavatory and got her hair wet, then washed and styled. When her hair was arranged as adequately as possible, she selected one of her plainer satin robes to wear for the day. When she came out after washing her face, the snake was waiting from a shelf and draped down onto her shoulder, settling comfortably round her neck, waist, and legs. Hermione, quite against walking about with a king cobra ostentatiously wrapped around her body after confiscating it from Draco, pulled at its thick length to no avail. The snake refused to move and merely nestled closer for warmth. He butted against her chin before resting on her shoulder.

"I can't go out like this!" Hermione cried despairingly, but the snake sat still. She stamped her feet in frustration.

Hermione tried for several more minutes to remove him, but he remained obstinate, and Hermione eventually had to leave the room and get to breakfast late.

When she arrived at the Gryffindor table, Hermione knew the snake was going to cause her a distracting amount of attention, more than she was willing to handle.

"You know, 'Mione, you could be less obvious about it," Ron said through a mouthful of toast.

"Easy for you to say, Ron. You haven't been trying to get it off for the last ten minutes. Speaking of, Harry, can you tell it to get off and ask it whether it wants a door to the tank?" Hermione served herself a large plate of toast and covered it with jam.

"I've never seen those robes, Hermione," Harry said, looking pointedly at Ron. Ron's eyes focused right below the upper part of the snake body then opened a bit wider. He looked at Hermione.

"Neither have I," said Ron, slightly hoarse.

Hermione shook her head. "You two are such boys." But she could not help but be pleased. Hiding her slowly flushing face, she recovered by reminding Harry, "Harry, would you please…?"

Harry jumped up. "Oh—yeah." He hesitated before the snake, which had turned balefully his way, aware of conversations silencing around them. He had not spoken Parseltongue since second year and that had not exactly resulted in excitement and glory for him… rather the opposite. But since Hermione had requested it, Harry felt keener to oblige. Bending to the snake, he hissed softly, "_You might let off Hermione a bit. You're not making her comfortable wrapped around her that way. She wants you to get off._"

The snake did not stir, but hissed back, "_I understand English speech vibrations, and I'd like a door._"

Harry grinned and said, "_Now get off her, I really don't think she's comfortable_."

The snake began sliding up Hermione's body, the head raising over Harry's, the hood spread in a spectacular spectacle of aggression.

"_I will not speak to you again. I go where I please. Stay!_" the snake screamed again as Harry took a step closer and opened his mouth to speak. The snake's face was inches from Harry's, mouth open, revealing his half-inch long fangs.

"I don't think your little snake likes me _still_, Hermione," Harry said, backing up as the low hissing issuing from the snake's mouth became a growl. The snake lunged half-heartedly, then coiled back possessively around Hermione. "He says he wants the door, he can understand English vibrations, and he never wants to speak to me again, in a nutshell."

Hermione sighed. "I was afraid of that. If I was in a fouler mood, I might hex him off, but I'll let him stay today." She absentmindedly stroked the scales again. "Snape's going to have a fit, and McGonagall won't be too happy either."

"I can just see the look on Snape's face," Ron groaned. "He's not going to have a fit, he's going to have a field day."  
"Maybe I can convince him to loosen his hold before then," Hermione said, shifting her stomach where the snake's body was vise-tight. The snake slid open enough for her to breathe more easily, but his hissing in her ear warned her not to press her luck.

McGonagall looked down at her as she paced the room during lecture, but the professor did not comment on the incongruous pair. It was clear, however, that if the snake disrupted or distracted the class too much, it would find itself employed as a limp accessory. Fortunately, the snake merely watched and, presumably, listened, occasionally attacking the end of Hermione's quill when he was bored.

Flitwick, too, paid little attention to the odd familiar. Flitwick was generally more laid back then any teacher and felt that if a student did not wish to learn, there was little point for him to press the issue, and he knew Hermione wanted to learn and would organize an environment in which she could. If the snake did not affect that environment, it could stay. He trusted her judgment.

She dreaded having to go into Snape's classroom, and Harry had to coax her in before she was late. Snape had not entered the classroom yet, and Draco and his cronies took full advantage of his absence.

"Enjoying the snake that doesn't belong to you?" Pansy sneered. "You confiscated it, then took it for yourself?"

"Sounds right dodgy to me," said one Slytherin near the back. "Unsportsmanlike."

"One," Hermione said softly, as though she had been preparing the speech all morning, "you didn't clear it with the Headmaster, so I was bound to confiscate it. Two, I brought it to the Magical Menagerie, but they could not take it because of Voldemort." Almost the entire room winced at the name. "If it wasn't for him, the snake would be properly cared for. Three, because the Menagerie could not take the snake, the manager suggested I ask Dumbledore, and under my time-constraints—due to the confiscation process—I had to bring the snake to school. Four, Dumbledore advised me to keep it for myself. If I had my way, I'd let it go to the Forbidden Forest or someplace where they would accept the snake and treat it humanely. Instead, the only other option I had was turning it in to the Law Enforcement Squad, who would probably confiscate it in an inhumane way because it's wizard-bred. So don't talk to me about sportsmanship when I merely follow the directions that act in the snake's best interest."

"A beautiful oration, Miss Granger," Snape said slickly from behind her, "you almost had me convinced. Ten points from Gryffindor for talking out of turn. Class started two minutes ago. And another ten points off for underhand theft that unfortunately I have no authority to further investigate." Snape looked thoroughly pleased that he had found a reason for taking points off Hermione. The occasion came by so rarely unless she was helping Neville with his potions.

The snake shifted so that it hovered out toward Snape, tongue tasting the air. If anything, it gave an appearance of amusement, swaying up and down like it was laughing.

"And keep in mind, Miss Granger, that I have several potions I'm interested in concocting that require ingredients your new familiar can provide." Then he swept to the front of the class and began a short lecture, which then followed into a quick potion with similar properties to the one discussed.

The Congealing Solution was dangerous in any situation, most particularly because the ingredients had to be put together at precise times almost immediately after the previous ingredient. Harry and Hermione had to work frantically to be as accurate as possible. Hermione was proud of him: Ever since he had leaned that an Auror needed near perfect marks in Potions, Harry had gritted his teeth and continued to sign up for Snape's class, much to the displeasure of both. And while their animosity remained, Snape did not criticize Harry's work too harshly. Both Harry and Hermione suspected Dumbledore had a hand in that. But Snape had grudgingly begun giving him fair grades, and with the added incentive, Harry's skills had drastically increased. His new fervor was evident in his work with Hermione. He was able to keep up with the pace. He even came up with the idea that they should alternate ingredients, which Pansy and Draco copied after watching them. The resulting potion was not perfect, but certainly close. Snape bottled the Solution without a word, but there was a tic near his eye.

The cobra, due to the sharp movements of Hermione's body, left her to hide under the table where the cool stone felt good against his scales with the fire from under the cauldron seeping down on him from above. Then he saw Malfoy's shifting foot. The mouth slowly opened and the fangs began to come forward. The snake surreptitiously left Hermione and headed to Draco's foot, where a glimpse of bare skin could be seen from the snake's angle.

It was difficult to say what happened next. Voldemort, as the man, would have considered it highly unlikely that he would act in such a way he endangered his own existence. Perhaps the Animagus briefly possessed the human. Perhaps the human briefly took solace in the creature's animal nature. Either way, the snake slipped up the pant leg slightly, without touching the skin, but then, in an action of passion at the remembrance of the basket through the animal's memory, the snake hooded, hissed, and reared back, alerting Draco to its presence. Hermione looked up and spotted the brown scales leading a path to Draco, and without thinking, she pulled out her wand and cried, "_Impedimenta_." The cobra froze, though the tail still wriggled angrily.

"I told you it did not like you. You'd be dead before now if you'd kept it. You should thank me," Hermione said irritably.

Snape looked horribly content. "Be that as it may, you ought to control your familiar. Deaths would not look good to the Ministry, especially with a Head Girl's familiar. Twenty points, Miss Granger. Next time, it's detention."

"And a trip to bed," Draco muttered.

"Class dismissed," Snape said, as though he had not heard, though he, too, knew the rumor.

"Well," Harry said mildly. "You can't say it was unexpected."

Immediately after, Hermione returned to her room, releasing the snake into the tank and locking it with a spell that make it impossible for him to get out then countered the Impediment Charm.

"Look," she said forcefully, glaring straight at him, "unless you want to remain in there for the rest of the year, I advise you to control your temper. They can put you to sleep for things like that. I agree that Draco deserves a bite out of his ankle. I'd prefer it out of his arse, but that would lead straight to death for you. I'd have to give you up to the Aurors, and at this paranoid time, it might lead to an inquiry with me and little sympathy for you. Harry said you understand English. I hope you understand me now. I've saved your life twice. I won't save you again. Your life is in your hands now. Think about it." Then she turned from it in finality. She left the room, leaving the snake trapped in a locked cage.

The minute she stepped into the common room, she nearly ran into Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

"Umph! Careful, Miss Granger. We were just coming to see you." McGonagall looked up the stairs to Hermione's room. "What is this I've heard of your snake trying to kill Mr. Malfoy? Professor Snape is raising demons about it. He wants it confiscated."

"Technically," said Hermione, "it already is, into my hands. I confiscated it from Malfoy, and at the time, it seemed the creature had been abused, neglected. It would probably attack me, too, if I had not tamed it with the snake-charming spell."

"Does it now extend to other people?" Madam Pomfrey asked disapprovingly.

"I don't think so. From the type of spell it is, I doubt anyone else can perform it on the snake without my removing mine."

"Convenient," McGonagall muttered darkly. "Where is this snake, Miss Granger?"

"Locked in his tank," Hermione answered, leading them upstairs.

"Good," McGonagall said. "In case the creature decides to kill anyone, we want an antidote. Before Poppy can make it, she needs the venom of the snake."

Hermione must have looked frightened, for Madam Pomfrey reassured her quickly. "The operation is painless, dear."

"No worries, I just… I'll need to be there to restrain him if he goes violent. He has a powerful body." Hermione opened the door to her room to catch the snake slithering quickly into his tank. Her Locking Charm had been countered.

"How…?" Hermione began then shook her head in bafflement. "I locked him in. With a spell."

"Snakes are formidable familiars, Miss Granger," McGonagall said softly. "You'll have to be careful with it. This one seems particularly able. Stubborn, too. Have you given it a name? The creature will not truly be yours until you name it. It's a special bond between a familiar and his witch." As Professor McGonagall spoke, she and Madam Pomfrey readied themselves to grab the snake.

Hermione got out her wand and watched the snake warily as the two women began to circle in. The cobra began to open its hood and swayed, sensing hostility.

"I haven't named it," Hermione said, "everything I can possibly think of either just doesn't match his temperament or it's too cute. And careful, he understands English."

"I'll try French next time," McGonagall said tartly, darting for the tail. She wrapped her hand around the body and held tight, but Madam Pomfrey missed the head, and the cobra whipped around to sink his teeth into McGonagall's arm.

Hermione, without even thinking about what she was saying, screamed, "Belthazar!"

The snake froze, and its head swung around, its eyes locked onto Hermione's.

"That's your name, isn't it?" Hermione whispered. "That's your name with me."

The snake's hood abruptly receded, and he raised himself up to his full height, not menacing at all.

"Belthazar," she said again, accustoming them both to the name. "They're not going to hurt you. They just want your venom so that if you bite someone, there is a remedy, and we might get off with an official warning. I hope it doesn't go that far, but precaution is wise in this case. Belthazar." Hermione knelt on the floor and the snake lowered itself so that they were eye to eye. The pervading emotion Hermione could see was one of complete surprise. "Let them do it. Let them perform the procedure, and I'll let you come with me to dinner rather than bind you to the tank."

Amusement flickered in the snake's eyes.

"Please?" Hermione said gently.

The snake looked at her for a long time, but Hermione did not feel the need to avoid blinking.

Finally, the snake… no, Belthazar, slithered toward Madam Pomfrey and bit the sponge-like object she held in her hand and began pulsing poison into it in convulsions that looked almost like swallowing. Madam Pomfrey was stunned. It took Belthazar a little time to extricate himself from the sponge, and when he did, he returned to Hermione, sliding up her body, once again with an almost touching possessiveness. He laid his head on her shoulder.

"Well, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, at a loss for words.


	4. Chapter 3

**Title:** Abyss (03)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The nightmares are EXCLUSIVELY MINE. NO ONE CAN TOUCH THEM BECAUSE I USED THEM IN AN ORIGINAL WORK. DO NOT TOUCH.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 3**

Voldemort shuddered against the window. The weather had been seasonably overcast with frequent rain and storms and high winds, but the temperature had plummeted to freezing at night with little variance during the day. The chill from the outside made his shoulder almost numb where it pressed to the glass.

To say the least, it had been an unforeseen quandary. For the last three weeks, he battled the charm that bound him to Hermione, but no matter what spell he cast, he could not hurt her, nor could he leave her to speak with the children of his followers. He was shackled to a Mudblood, and there was presently nothing to be done.

When she was asleep, he could return to his true form, and he often did, but she always went to bed late. He did not remember ever staying up so late for school, until he realized schoolwork was not the reason for sleep-deprivation. The first time he trailed his fingers over the spines of the books on her private library shelves, his tips lingered upon one large tome. The texture of the binding did not match the texture he saw, so he opened the book.

"Oh, Hermione," he murmured, "someone's being a bad, bad girl." Nightmare Curses and Potions, that was where the pages were most worn. A renegade Gryffindor , how lovely. Studying the Dark Arts from a book that he had only otherwise seen in Lucius Malfoy's personal study. He considered transforming into his own body in her presence to offer his assistance. If only she were not such a close, sincere friend of Harry Potter.

After his initial hostility with the boy, Potter avoided him when Voldemort now realized it might be wise to get close to him. Hermione, however, had become familiar with the way he glared at Potter when ready to strike and restrained him in time to prevent Potter's injury.

Hermione.

_Belthazar_, she had named him. It was better than some of the names she could have given him. Most of them, in fact. It was adequate. But who was he fooling? The way he had reacted when she had first called him by his animal name. Most Animagi had aliases for their other selves, but he had never christened his cobra. When Hermione said the name, there was that beautiful, satisfied feeling of a puzzle piece clicking into place or a perfect chess move. Even a sense of kinship with the girl…

Voldemort caught himself as he was drifting into his Animagus form without thinking. This was no time to become doe-eyed as a beloved pet, though Hermione seemed to like him well enough now that she had accustomed herself to his rhythm.

Voldemort left the window. The rain impeded the visibility anyway. He turned back to Hermione, sleeping in her bed. With the cold weather, he had to curl next to her in his snake form – he hated the claustrophobic feeling in the tank. He transformed and climbed up the post to settle close to her legs. She did not shift much during the night, and she never kicked. He would escape, soon. Until then, he would sleep.

888

Hermione stretched and yawned as she woke up at four. Outside, the storm still raged, but a calm light permeated the clouds, making the storm less menacing and more relaxing. It would be one of those mornings she would want to go back to sleep, but she could at least try to get some work done first.

She had progressed past the introductions to diary entries of the cursed.

_My first dream was surprisingly linear, for I had never experience a dream that I could follow with uncanny accuracy. It began in the middle of a desert. Not desert of pure sand, but one with brush and with clay red sand. I was next to a road, a two-lane street extending to the horizon in both directions. The heat shimmered off it in waves. The sun filled almost the entire sky, and the heat caused the skin on my arms and legs to boil and ooze black liquid that congealed at my bare feet. My feet had already melted to the ground so that the muscles were already becoming singed. All around me were bones with bits of blackened flesh still lingering, victims of the sweltering heat._

_The only creatures that survived the heat were the vultures, which had shed their dark feathers for thin gray fur. They circled directly overhead, dripping burning blood onto my head from their gorging beaks. They get near enough for me to see they have no eyes, just empty sockets. The first lands on my shoulder and caresses my cheek with blood. Its breath is foul as carrion, and it only grows fouler as it is joined by its brother on my left shoulder. I want to shake them off, but with a quick snap, they dislocate my shoulders. The other vultures flock at my feet to eat the flesh I no longer feel. But the two on my shoulders begin to eat my face. Ahead of me I see the gaping eyes of my wife impaled on a fence post. My mouth opens to scream, and a vulture plucks my tongue from my mouth. I drown on my own saliva long after the vultures have had their fill of me, leaving me for another meal._

Hermione had to close the book and just breathe for a little before she could get up and take a bath. Belthazar was sleeping on her coverlet when she left, and when she came back a full hour later, he still slept. Hermione smiled. She would never admit it to Harry because they _both_ seemed to hate each other, but Hermione was really beginning to look upon him with less annoyance and more affection. Who would have ever thought she could love a snake?

"Belthazar," she whispered, nudging him right behind his ribs. The snake lifted his head grudgingly. "You can go back to sleep if you would like, but I wanted you to know I'm going downstairs for the early breakfast. I really can't concentrate up here, and I don't feel tired anymore. You can come join me whenever you're ready."

Then she left him.

Voldemort was stunned. She _never_ left him alone, not without either casting a difficult Locking Charm or series of them on the door. She did not make him stay in his tank. She tried that once, looked at her handiwork then let him out, feeling pity for a magnificent creature caged. Now she left the door slightly open, enough for him to slip through.

But before going…

He transformed into his true form and slipped his wand into his hand. Then he walked to Hermione's desk. He Duplicated a piece of parchment rather than take one of her own. She might observe its loss. He would not underestimate her extensive abilities. He did, however, borrow her quill and ink—the quill had already been extensively used and the ink bottle was opaque.

_Draco Malfoy,_

_Bloody fool! Your father is primarily to blame for this mishap because he did not tell you the full nature of your mission, as he was instructed. However, this does not excuse you from your fatal misconduct in mishandling and losing me to a Mudblood. Had not the girl caught me, you would be dead._

_Yes, I, Lord Voldemort, was the snake with which you were entrusted. You have one more chance for the Malfoy family to return to my good graces. This is what you must do:_

_Get in secret contact with your father. Arrange for a Death Eater visit to Hogwarts. It will merely be a way to take both the girl and myself in custody and simultaneously giving Hogwarts a good scare. The entrance should be simple. Have Bellatrix bring her alarm alerts; Dumbledore could have the passage watched. If the Shrieking Shack entrance is not available, have them try the Forbidden Forest, though the mouse hole to the barrier has likely closed. In the situation where none of these work, have them use the underground passage, not matter what the danger may be. They'll know of what I speak. This should allow for sufficient planning on my Death Eaters' parts, if they have any mind at all left._

_Once inside, they should wait for me in the deepest dungeons after sending an owl to you. You will then locate my position, and I will isolate myself and the girl. This is a stealth mission, not a full-out slaughter. I will kill anyone who disobeys these orders. That includes you, boy. Begin immediately._

_Lord Voldemort_

Voldemort folded and sealed the letter, then transformed back to Belthazar and took the letter in his mouth in an uncomfortable but necessary angle. By slipping his head through the crack in the door, he could sense no motion and knew no one was about. He began maneuvering himself to the hearth, where the fire had gone out. The house-elves would come to remedy the cold soon. The hole he noticed a week ago from a brief reconnaissance while Hermione oversaw the common room gaped unnoticed and uncorrected. This hole, according to what he knew of the castle through the basilisk's eyes, would lead to the pipes. Sure enough, after a very tight squeeze, he found his way. Then he headed downward.

The farther down he went, the more difficult it was to concentrate on where he was going. A part of him wanted to turn back, go to the room or to the Great Hall, anywhere but away from Hermione.

Voldemort swore to himself.

But she did not have complete control of his direction, not really. The desire was there, but he could deny it with the rational part of his brain. He reached the turn he wanted. He braced himself to get very wet.

In a few minutes, he was standing in the middle of the Slytherin boys' lavatory. He sneered in disgust. This is what the Malfoy brat had reduced him to, a pet having to go through toilet pipes to get somewhere. He had to bite his tongue to restrain himself from cursing the mirrors into shards of reflections on the floor.

Voldemort pressed his ear flush against the door to the boys' dormitories. Then he wrapped his hand around the knob and turned with a remarkable amount of patience for someone who had been fidgeting to avoid violence only seconds before. The door opened without a sound. He stretched his mind outward like a spider's legs. Like legs, they extended only so far, but enough for him to locate the Malfoy boy. After a quick Drying Charm on the letter, Voldemort thinned and slid to the floor as Belthazar. Then he slithered out of the lavatory and down the stairs. Draco Malfoy was the second left. The door was already open and it was his fortune none of the boys were awake.

He climbed up to Draco's level much as he did in Hermione's bed. However, he felt he would rather curl up next to a Mudblood than next to Draco. He nudged Draco's face with his own. Draco stirred, and his eyelids fluttered, but he did not wake.

This time, the nudge held no trace of gentleness. Draco's brows drew together.

"Whazit?" he muttered, sitting up and squinting.

Voldemort lifted himself up and bared his fangs and hood.

Draco gave a shout, and Voldemort dropped to the bed. He pushed the note forward with his snout. Draco quieted, though his heart still sent out quick, subtle vibrations through the bed.

"Oy!" cried someone from a nearby bed. "Whazit, Draco?"

Voldemort slithered backward, preparing himself for any of Draco's responses.

"Nothing!" Draco yelled back. "Thought something bit me is all."

"Sure it wasn't Pansy?" someone else suggested.

"Thought she was with you tonight, Bacchus," Draco retorted. "Go back to sleep."

The boy named Bacchus sniggered again. "Pansy, my sweet buttercup, he gave us permission. Love me!"

"Keep it down over there," said a grunt that sounded suspiciously like the son of Goyle. "Tryin' to sleep."

While there were still some sniggers and muffled conversation, not many wanted to be on the other side of Goyle's fists, not matter how thick in the head he was.

Draco stared at the snake that he recognized as Granger's, saw that it did not seem to desire sinking its teeth into his skin. He picked up the letter. Voldemort left and headed for the Great Hall. His ability to concentrate improved. When he arrived, he found a quite angered Hermione.

888

While Voldemort traveled through the Hogwarts pipe system, Hermione was on her way to what she had hoped would be a private breakfast in the Great Hall.

Instead, she found Filch standing guard at the entrance.

"No one can enter yet," muttered Filch, flashing his awful, crooked smile at her. He had looked at her like that ever since she started fulfilling her duties as Head Girl by patrolling the halls in the evening. Hermione hated the slimy feeling his yellow-eyed leer gave her. "Staff meeting."

"If it's a staff meeting, I'll feed myself poison," she murmured, turning on her heel and heading another direction.

She knew Mrs. Norris would be guarding the other obvious entrance, the door behind the High Table. So, she would just have to go another route. She knew where an invisible window was on the second floor.

Second floor, left, right, first portrait on the right. Ah, yes, here was the portrait of Thomas Peepington. She bent her fingers against the back of the frame, and it swung open. She looked through the full picture window presented to her. She could hear what the people below her around the High Table were saying. And it was certainly not a staff meeting.

"…haven't heard anything of his movements," said Lupin. "We've kept a weather eye open and an Auror's ear ready, but nothing of Lord Voldemort has reached us."

Dumbledore set his head onto his hands in frustration. "This is uncharacteristic of him. He's not easily predictable, but unless he is gathering strength, there is rarely such a lull; yet the movements of the dementors in Siberia, the demons in Australia, the snake people of Northern Africa… none of these established armies have shown any sign of movement, nor have the escaped Death Eaters shown their faces lately. The silence is maddening."

"Perhaps," said Snape, "he's planning an Underground Movement. He's spoken of it."

"Too easy to track with Aurors watching," McGonagall disagreed. Hermione snorted.

"Maybe," Ron ventured, "I don't know… The Forbidden Forest. A few more Dark creatures could have gone unnoticed."

"Possible," Dumbledore said, "but unlikely. He'd gain nothing from it. The mouse hole they opened last year has been closed and the boundaries have been strengthened. The security has not been breached again. Hogwarts isn't built next to the Forbidden Forest for nothing."

"Do you feel Hogwarts is immediately targeted, Albus?" Flitwick asked from his chair.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm sure it's on his list, but until his forces are readily reinforced, he won't directly attack Hogwarts. What we _should_ be wary of is espionage. Our system here is perfect for rats; we do have a few defenses still not operating at their highest capabilities." Dumbledore paused. "Harry, have you noticed anything? Any new dreams or visions?"

Harry shook his head. "My headaches have gotten worse this year, but it is to be expected really. I've almost gotten used to them now."

"And what do your dreams tell you?" Firenze said softly from the corner.

Harry turned to look at the centaur. "The same thing as before: that the war is swiftly approaching and that I'll be separated from many friends. All of those which I could have guessed on my own."

"Patience, Mr. Potter," Firenze murmured. "You answers will come."

"Who tells you the prophecy?" asked the airy voice of Professor Trelawney.

Harry sighed like someone who has told a dream a thousand times. "A unicorn," he said finally. Dumbledore put a hand on Trelawney's arm and shook his head. Trelawney had almost responded.

"Harry's told us his dream. He'll report more when he has more," Dumbledore said in a tone that suggested that the subject was closed. "What of Hermione? Has she continued to press you for information about the Order?"

Harry and Ron shared a rueful glance. "Yeah," Ron admitted.

"It feels like we're betraying her. We used to do everything together, and without her, we probably could not have done half the things we did." Harry rubbed the end of his nose.

"I know it's difficult, Harry," said Dumbledore, "but it's best for her."

Hermione snorted again.

"You know, that's not very lady-like," Filch said from behind her.

Hermione jumped and spun around.

"Oh, dear, forgot to look behind ourselves," he chuckled, grasping her arm, needlessly adjusting his hand several times. "I shall have to tell the Headmaster about _this_. Make no mistake." Filch clicked his tongue at Hermione then dragged her down to the first floor.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, we've an eavesdropper here," Filch exclaimed excitedly, throwing Hemrione forward. She stumbled before finding her footing.

She stood straight and spoke before any of them could open their mouths. "Let me be a part of the Order. I could really help you!"

"You're daft, girl," Snape sneered.

"We've already discussed this, Hermione," Lupin said with a sigh. "Mrs. Weasley won't let you or Ginny join. She almost did not let Ron in."

"Why _did_ she let Ron in?" Hermione demanded.

"Well… because… she knew Harry'd tell Ron no matter what," Lupin said, bracing himself.

Hermione's head whipped around to Harry, and he had to force himself not to jump—she almost looked like Belthazar when she did that.

She did not speak, but her thought were clear: _And you wouldn't tell me?_ Harry had to look away.

"They made me swear, Hermione. On my parents' graves. Literally," Harry explained pleadingly.

"Enough of this," Snape said, walking between the two. "This is not the point. The point is that Miss Granger eavesdropped on an exclusive Order meeting. There must be some sort of…"

"Punishment?" said Ron, outraged. "We would have done the same thing if it was us."

"Precisely," Snape retorted. "As Head Girl, she should know better."

Dumbledore stepped forward, putting an end to all discussion. "While the Headmaster part of me is inclined to agree with Severus, I believe she should go unpunished. The truth is, Hermione, I understand your desire to be a part of the Order, but without permission from your parents and the Weasleys by proxy, I am unable to allow you even a small amount of membership. As Head Girl, you do your part for the Order by protecting Hogwarts and the students within it."

Hermione shook her head. "My duties as Head…" She paused, then tugged her arm from Filch's clutches. "You don't need to hold onto me anymore."

"You're excused, Argus," Dumbledore said. Filch reluctantly left the room.

"As I was saying," Hermione continued, brushing a lock of hair out of her face, "my duties as Head Girl offer me no challenge. I attend them and my homework and still have extra time for other things. And how can I protect Hogwarts without knowing the threat?"

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Professor Dumbledore replied softly. "You argue your side well, but the fact remains I am unable to admit you to the Order. Rest assured when there is a known threat to Hogwarts, I will summon you."

Hermione sighed. "I could really help, you know."

"We have the help we need, Miss Granger," Snape snapped. "Don't give yourself delusions of grandeur."

Hermione turned cold eyes to him. "If you don't need help, why can't you find Lord Voldemort?"

"If _you_ have any information, Miss Granger," Snape hissed through clenched teeth, "please share it with us."

"I might be able to help if I have what little knowledge you do have," Hermione shot back.

"Enough," Dumbledore said with a sort of finality. "This meeting is adjourned. Go about your breakfasts."

"You might want to avoid the Great Hall again," Hermione advised, sullen at the response. "I've been waking up earlier."

"Duly noted," Lupin said. He put a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "Once again, our apologies, but we can't. You have to understand."

"I do," Hermione said, "and you also have to understand _I_ found out that it was the Philosopher's Stone that was hidden in Hogwarts, _I_ made the Polyjuice Potion, _I_ discovered that the monster in the Chamber was a basilisk, _I _had the Time Turner… Professor Lupin, I'd be the first to admit that Harry and Ron are better at action, but I do the dusty work they don't know how to do."

Professor Lupin shook his head again and repeated, "I'm sorry, Hermione."

Hermione looked at Harry and Ron, who were eating at the Gryffindor Table and casting furtive glances at her. "So am I," she whispered at Lupin's retreating back.

Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor Table, but several seats from her two friends.

"We have no choice," Harry said. "On my parents' graves."

"I know, Harry, I understand, but I don't have to like it," Hermione said, taking her share of cereal and milk. "You probably wouldn't in my position."

"No," Ron said quietly. "We wouldn't."

"Oh no," Harry muttered, "your guardian snake is back."

Belthazar, with his unhooded head peeking over the tables, slithered toward Hermione, then curled around her. Hermione was startled. He had not done that in two weeks, since she had stopped trying to push him away.

"Belthazar's sweet, Harry, I don't know what you have against him." Hermione ate a spoonful of cereal.

Belthazar stuck his tongue out smugly at Harry.

"Or," Hermione added, "what _you_ have against Harry. I thought it would be a relief to hear your own language from a human.

In response, Belthazar growled once, then ducked out of sight.

"There's something funny about that snake," Ron said.

"You're just biased against serpents, Ron. I don't blame you for the hatred association, but snakes are just misunderstood, and I reckon I'd get reprimanded for a lion instead."

888

_Hermione runs through Hogwarts. Doors fly by her, but the corridors and portals are unfamiliar to her. She pushes bushy hair reaching her knees from the front of her body, and she realizes her thick hair is all that clothes her, and her legs are streaked with blood. Though it is not her time of the month, menstrual blood flows out from between her legs in streams, splashing on the stone floor and leaving an easy trail for the people following her who started this flood._

_Her puddles of blood writhe, becoming venomous pit vipers, Egyptian asps and rattlers and sidewinders. They open their gigantic mouths, baring fangs much too big for their bodies._

_Hermione flees again, sliding on her own red fluids. She trips and falls into empty space where a set of stairs has moved away. The fall seems to last forever, but then she lands in a bed of down pillows. All around her are Death Eaters reaching for her and their hands grasp tightly and twist and pinch and taste the blood on her legs. She feels one rip her from the inside. Then another and another and another… She screams like an eagle. Voldemort's face is there, laughing at her, though she has never seen his face before. He does nothing but watch as his followers rape her and laugh._

Hermione jerked up from her bed, sweat pouring from her face and soaking her pajamas. Belthazar looked up as though he had not even been asleep. Hermione found it unusual for a diurnal creature, but paid the detail little heed. Her focus was only writing down the results of the Nightmare Curse she had cast upon herself. The area between her legs ached, but Hermione knew it was only psychological pain. In fact, Hermione would not be surprised if her period had started early.

"Successful test," Hermione said to Belthazar. "Now I can develop the Nightmare Potion. Not for consumption, of course," she muttered to herself as she changed nightclothes after a quick cold bath. "I don't fancy having a nightmare like that for years. Now just to find the counter-curse…" Her voice drifted as her mind drifted back to sleep like she had not even woken up.

Belthazar had already contentedly fallen asleep at Hermione's feet.


	5. Chapter 4

**Title:** Abyss (04)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The nightmares are EXCLUSIVELY MINE. NO ONE CAN TOUCH THEM BECAUSE I USED THEM IN AN ORIGINAL WORK. DO NOT TOUCH.

**Author's notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 4**

Voldemort waited patiently for some sign that the Malfoy boy understood his message, and he did not wait in vain. During a Potions class, Draco slid a note back with his foot. Voldemort lunged forward, snatching it, and hid it under his substantial bulge of a lizard Hermione had provided.

The note read simply:

_6:40 pm Trophy Room: There's a secret room. Draco Malfoy._

Voldemort tossed it into the Gryffindor common room fire and slithered out the first open portrait hole. Most of the Gryffindor had become so used to him they even gave him a salutary greeting. The unexpected good rapport amused him.

He crossed the path of Mrs. Norris, who sniffed at him once in mild disdain and thought nothing of him. It was depressingly easy for him to maneuver. These people deserved the subterfuge occurring right under their noses to alert them to its utter simplicity.

The Malfoy boy was waiting for him and opened the door of one of the ever-moving broom cupboards. When the door closed and locked behind his tail, Voldemort transformed in a red fury. He flew at Draco and pressed his wand against the pale flesh of Draco's throat.

"You should be more than relieved that the Cruciatus Curse sets off preventive alarms these days. Otherwise, I would have you writhing on the floor under Cruciatus. As it is... _Sanguinus_."

Draco fell to the ground in pain beyond anything his father had initiated, though Lucius used the Hemorrhage Hex on him often. Draco grasped the hem of Voldemort's robes. The Dark Lord ripped them from the boy's fingers. Draco reached for the Dark Lord's boot in desperation and placed a reverent kiss upon it. Voldemort lifted the hex. Draco pushed away so that he sat against the closet wall, sweat streaming from his face.

"I beg forgiveness, my lord," Draco pleaded, still panting for breath. "I knew not what I was doing."

"That is the story of your family line, Draco Malfoy. Know this: I never forgive. The debt of neglect must be repaid." Voldemort glared down at the cringing boy in whose eyes he had once seen such arrogance. It gave a certain pleasure to see the spark extinguished in his presence.

"What of my Death Eaters?" Voldemort demanded.

Draco promptly answered, "They had to use the underground entrance. They await your command."

"Did anyone make the mistake of inviting Severus?" Voldemort asked.

"No," Draco replied with a sneer.

"Perfect. Tell my Death Eaters to remain where they are. A Nightmare Potion will soon be in my possession. You will make sure that Hermione receives that potion. Subtlety is vital. No force must be used, only deception. This duty can redeem you in my eyes. At least temporarily."

"My lord," Draco ventured, "are you sure you don't want an assassination of Potter?"

"Of course not," Voldemort snapped. "A cobra in the midst of Gryffindors? The boy has his suspicions."

Draco looked startled. "And Granger doesn't? She's the brains of the trio. I'd imagine she'd be the first with the strongest suspicions."

Voldemort smirked. "She harbors affection for me. She never felt threatened."

Draco began laughing spitefully.

Voldemort slapped him, the sharpened nails raking the face.

Draco stared at him in shock.

"The girl is important to my plan, boy! You can hardly understand what that means. You do not respect what she is capable of. Never laugh in ignorance, Draco Malfoy! It is despicable."

The boy's speech seemed to have fled.

"You will do as I command, boy," Voldemort said. "You will not question my judgment. You are bound to serve me, not advise me."

"Yes, my lord," Draco replied, fingering the thin stream blood now dripping down his cheek.

"Good. Deliver my orders to my Death Eaters and ready yourself for when I give you the potion." Voldemort transformed back to the cobra.

"Yes, my lord," Draco said. He bowed then once again opened the door for Voldemort and shut it behind them. The broom cupboard disappeared.

As Voldemort slithered away, he replayed the scene again in his mind as an impartial observer. He cringed as he saw his own impartiality concerning Hermione. The snake-charming spell clearly bound his mind as well as his body. And to imagine he had exhibited that particular protectiveness to Draco. Funny though, that the spell allowed him to kidnap her but curbed his tongue. But, oh, to cast a curse after having to abstain for so long felt so good!

And that he had begun making mistakes: trying to bite Draco, distancing himself from Harry, trusting Malfoy. It appeared that one of the only things he had done right was winning Hermione's fondness. Now he hoped he had not made a mistake in giving his Death Eaters this mission. They had succeeded in subtlety before, but the best of them all at the art was the traitor. Severus' deception did not anger him—it was, at worst, interesting—but it certainly became inconvenient at times. He regretted the loss, and Severus would feel the wrath of the Dark Lord, but Voldemort himself was quite indifferent to betrayal as long as work continued to get done.

Work, hopefully, was getting done as he returned to the Gryffindor common room.

888

_Hermione swims in a vast icy lake. She begins to tire. She is fully attired and the clothes weigh her down. She rips through them until she is adorned in a light slip, which allows her to float more easily._

_Fingers wrap around her ankle and she jumps, eyes flying open. A head rises from the water. The skin has become gray, the veins bright against the transparent covering. She supposes the face was masculine at one point, but now the cheeks hang from the bone and the eyes had been eaten from their sockets. The flesh of his lips had also long since been nibbled away and he was leprous. The edges of his fingers and ears and nose were rotting off. Those fingers trail sensuously up her leg, and he continues his eternal, terrifying grin._

_He pulls her under, and she gives her last gasp of real air before being completely submersed. The corpse pulls her closer and tries to kiss her with what is left of his lips. She struggles and breathes in water. His mouth forces hers open. From his decaying body comes poisoned air that Hermione gulps in gladly. His leprous hands paw at her breasts, and as the poison takes effect with a dizzying languor, she sees he was severed from his waist down. His legs drift by as she dies._

Hermione was used to waking from her nightmares covered in a light sheen of cold sweat, but that feeling of dread and a terrible excitement in the pit of stomach she could never accustom herself to. Tired of jerking awake with her, Belthazar now napped in the afternoon and waited at night for her to wake up before returning to his slumber without interruptions.

The increasing revulsion and emotional intensity told her that her counter-curses with which she experimented were not working. It was difficult to continue facing fears every night. She wanted more than anything to have a true good night's sleep, but still the curse kept her from healthy rest. Dark circles appeared under her eyes. Ron noticed the difference, and he alerted Harry to the fact. Now they kept teasing her about studying too hard for her N.E.W.T.s she was going to ace anyway. Hermione marveled at the shallowness they expected from her.

She had begun the Nightmare Potion, which was devastatingly easy to brew, but unlike the Curse, it had a known antidote that she was simultaneously concocting in larger quantities. Belthazar was helping her by keeping her focused. When she needed extra steady aid, he provided his body as a brace. He pointed out the next ingredient or drew her attention to difficult instructions. In fact, without him, Hermione knew she would not have been able to make the potion, at least with the mental state she was presently in. She could not explain the gratitude she felt for Draco's snake.

He was beginning to shed and lose his fangs. She collected the skins and set them where she kept potions supplies. Not only were they used in many potent potions, they added a pleasing atmosphere. When his teeth loosened and fell out, Hermione charmed holes through them and threaded them onto a leather string as a bracelet for good luck. She wore it on the same wrist as her other good luck charms she had kept from all her Forbidden Forest visits: her amulus of collected stones, her silver rings… she had even had the lycanthe tattooed over while in Switzerland. Her parents had rolled their eyes but dismissed it as a phase, and allowed her to have it done if that was what she really and truly wanted. It had been done on the palm of her sinister hand. But she liked the result, no matter that it would fade eventually. Harry and Ron inquired about its significance, and at first Harry had looked indignant because of Lupin until Hermione explained the protection acted against the beast, not the man. McGonagall had seen it once and snorted, but Hermione had spoken about it at length with Professor Flitwick. Some of the boys thought it looked cool, but she had not had it done for fashion, but for herself and for practical reasons. She suspected only Dumbledore could ever know the true significance, but he never asked. She did, however, treat all these adornments with almost a true talismanic reverence. She was unsure how lucky they were, but they kept danger from her in the Forbidden Forest, and she liked them.

She stroked Belthzar's scales after a quick shower that was routine after the nightmares. As the weather turned even colder on top of the extensive storming, Belthazar drifted closer to her pillows for warmth. If it became much colder than this, Hermione was going to allow him under the quilts. That should be better. And she fell asleep—pure, dreamless sleep—her hand still on Belthazar's scales. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. She sprang from bed, disturbing Belthazar this time. He hooded in irritation.

"I'm so sorry, Belthazar, I just… the most brilliant idea, got to check, so I might wake you up again tonight. I'm putting the curse back on myself. _Pesaduis obscurus_," she chanted, pointing the tip of her wand toward herself. Then she closed her eyes and said, "_Pesadia luminata_."

Then she jumped under her covers and looked into Belthazar's strange maroon eyes. "This may be it, Belthazar," she whispered. "Say whatever prayer you know that this will work. And you know what's really ironic? I can't tell anyone about it even if it works. Pity, really."

After the positive adrenaline rush from the epiphany, it was surprising that she drifted into unconsciousness almost immediately. When she woke up that next morning, she was once again elated. She had not encountered a single nightmare. She added her new antidote into the book of curses and potions as she had done on other pages. She was pleased to be able to counter yet another popular curse.

Maybe one day she could reveal her discoveries to Voldemort's adversaries.

Until then, she would seek as many counters and antidotes as possible. The day was not far in coming that any help for the Order would be welcome.

888

Hermione finished the Nightmare Potion later that week. For the last three days, the potion had to be stirred in an infinity sign every six hours (why the direction had to say "in an infinity" and not "in a figure eight" continued to elude Hermione). Near the end it was a clear, thin liquid that weighed a little less than water. Because only a small dose was potent, Hermione bottled the resulting brew in tiny vials, three dozen in all, with two vials of antidote for each one. The rest she destroyed with a wave of her wand. Then she put the vials into her store cupboard. She loved having her own laboratory.

Belthazar watched her avidly during the end. Hermione did not mind, nor did she notice when one vial of Nightmare Potion went missing during one of her breaks or when a corresponding vial of antidote disappeared as well. Had she taken a whim to clean house and happened to feel the area under the cupboards that needed dusting (as they did), Hermione would have found the vials underneath the potions cupboard itself. Yet that evening after dinner saw the vial of Nightmare Potion leave in the maw of a king cobra with red eyes.

888

Hermione was eating breakfast while reading old N.E.W.T. exam essays and descriptions of trials, like Hermione was supposed to—though it could not be denied that she enjoyed some light reading every once in a while—Draco Malfoy strode up to the table.

"Quidditch this afternoon," he drawled, putting his elbows on the table very close to Hermione's food.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," Hermione said, picking up her milk. She held it in her hand rather than drinking as she added, "Please move."

Draco shrugged but stayed where he was. "You took my snake, I'll take your space." Then he sat down next to her, pushing Lavender to the side. Lavender stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose. Then she and Parvati continued their gossip—no doubt about the scandalous acts Hermione and Draco were committing on the side.

"You going to cheer your mates on, Granger? I'm sure it's for their lady fair they work hard. And they do have to work so hard against Hufflepuff…"

"None of your business, Malfoy," Hermione said, turning a page in her book and taking a sip from her cup. She paused as she noticed Draco's eyes on her mouth as she drank. "What?"

Draco shrugged again, then grinned, "Just thinking about what it's like to be your drink."

Hermione choked on the second sip of milk she took.

"Okay, what joke is this? Who dared you to come over here?" Harry said irritably.

"Very chivalrous of you, Potty, protecting the weaker sex."

Hermione slammed the cup down, causing the milk to slosh over the sides. Draco took the cup and glanced at it ponderingly before taking a drink himself, expressing almost burlesque appreciation.

Ron, who had been spluttering in anger until now, stood and prepared to throw the jelly bowl at Draco's head, but Hermione took the cup and tilted it, causing the milk to pour into Draco's lap. She would have liked to pour it on his head, but then it would have hit Lavender as well.

Draco jumped, but then smiled and laughed. He lifted his milk-dripping hands to Hermione's mouth. Hermione bent backward and pushed Draco off the bench. He fell back, still laughing.

"Guess that's a no, Granger," he mocked. "Until next time." He walked out of the Great Hall to change, shaking his head in mirth.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron exchanged bewildered looks.

"What was that?" Ron asked, still clutching the jelly bowl like a grenade.

Hermione blinked. "Search me. Insanity?"

"Probably," Harry agreed, and they returned to their breakfast.

888

Draco's next move was at lunch, but Hermione took hers in her rooms, so the drugged pumpkin juice sat at her place until the house-elves disposed of it as waste. This left him the option of dinner, but when she saw him coming, Harry and Ron slid closer to her and Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Ginny glared at him. He backed off. He decided the last time to strike would be when she was alone.

That night, long after the Quidditch game (which Gryffindor won, but not by much), Hermione fulfilled her Friday night duties as hall monitor. She was wary because she had passed Filch so many times she suspected Mrs. Norris had an eye on her. She was wearing the open velvet robes and velvet dress ensemble, which she wore every Friday, and it was the most flattering of the seven black robes. Filch did not even hide the direction he was looking.

So when one of Filch's broom cupboards opened and a hand pulled her in, she felt paralyzed with fear that Filch's lanky hair would brush her shoulder and his gnarled fingers would clasp her waist as his filthy mouth would close on hers. She was more than surprised when a finger was pressed against her lips and she heard Draco shush her. She was not sure, however, if this situation was any better.

Her pessimistic outlook was confirmed when contrary to Filch's cracking lips against hers, they were substituted for the lips of a youth. He had her pinned against a group of mops that poked uncomfortably into her back. She squirmed to get free, but Draco only deepened the kiss, nibbling at her lower lip. He apparently made her bleed, too, because something warm trickled along her lip and into her mouth.

His mouth then wandered downward, relishing the skin of her throat. His hands ran up her back, savoring the feel of her shoulder blades then moving to the curves of her collarbone.

"Hermione, I never expected…" he muttered into her neck. His hand cupped one breast and squeezed gently as his tongue laved her earlobe.

Hermione finally got a grip on Draco's shoulders and shoved him away hard. She could not see him, but she heard the clatter of brooms against dustbins and buckets. She fumbled for the knob, and as her hand closed around it, Draco's hand crept up her skirt. Hermione gave a little scream then twisted the knob. She stumbled into the torchlight of the corridors. Draco continued to pursue her. Hermione licked the dampness from her lips before turning to face him, wand in hand.

The threat was superfluous as Belthazar slithered up, swaying and hooded and growling like a dog. Draco froze and backed up, holding his hands in front of him as if they would stop Belthazar from attacking. Belthazar took his place before Hermione and glared at Draco with fangs bared.

"All right," Draco said, "I won't touch her again."

The growling continued.

"It's finished, okay," Draco insisted, a note of hesitation creeping into his voice. "This won't happen again."

Belthazar gave one last hiss before whipping around and herding Hermione down the hall and away from Draco.

After they had turned the corner, Draco smirked. He had never so enjoyed a mission before. He regretted not being able to savor the moment a little longer before pouring what was left of the altered Nightmare Potion in. He didn't stake his life on it, though, and went about his business.

888

Voldemort thought Hermione would never sleep. She worked late into the night on a new project:

Like the Nightmare Curse and its corresponding Potion, her next focus was on her fears. She had read about some of the favorite curses the Death Eaters used during Revels and invasions and ambushes. Though the Unforgivables were high on the list, sex curses were also prevalent. To be perfectly honest, the subject excited her to some degree, even as it disgusted her. She was sure if she were confronted with the various situations, she would not be so stimulated.

While she knew there really was no counter for these spells due to circumstantial obstacles, the knowledge of them as well as possible charms and curses the victim could use after being charmed could still be useful. The problem was finding them. Erotica Alley could probably have her answers, but the street next to Knockturn Alley was incredibly difficult to get to these days. She could try correspondence, but there was too much of a chance the questions would be intercepted by Aurors. So she stole Parvati's collection of magazines that centered on sexuality. Hermione nearly threw up, but she found some fairly good charms to lessen the pain or heighten the pleasure as well as make the man really enjoy the flesh to the point of beneficial distraction. How Hermione hated reading about them all, but the length of the list cheered her up a little.

Even then she did not sleep. She went out into the common room to work with Neville, Harry, and Ron on turning Colin or Dennis Creevey into porcupines. They all marveled at Hermione's obvious mastery at the transfiguration spell.

"How do you do it?" Ron said in awe as she demonstrated obvious mastery at the wand-waving.

"I watch Professor McGonagall and I copy her," Hermione explained, shrugging. "What's so amazing about that?"

"The fact it works," Ron suggested.

They worked on the spell until about one o'clock in the morning when Ron succeeded in giving Dennis quills.

She almost collapsed on her bed, once again startling Belthazar from his accidental slumber. "It's been a long day, Belthazar, even for me. It felt strange not to do anything on nightmares. I almost miss it."

Belthazar butted his head against Hermione's brow in frustration.

"Sorry, I know I've been keeping you up at night. It should stop soon, okay?" Hermione rubbed the area behind his head. Belthazar's eyes seemed to glaze over in delight. It should not have felt so good, but it did nonetheless.

"That's for being there when Draco went mad. I don't know what's gotten into him," Hermione mused. "Usually he calls me ugly because my front teeth used to be a little big. But that he'd… pull me into a broom cupboard… I don't understand it…"

She fell asleep still in her robes, Belthazar hissing soothingly in her ear.

Then the real nightmares began.

Voldemort did not expect the bubble of despair that expanded from the inside. He realized he was experiencing Hermione's bad feelings. He growled in irritation. He would have to get her to lift the charm. He could not continue this way. But how was he to torture the child into relenting without actually touching her violently or cursing her or even watching his Death Eaters torture her? He had not been so lucky when Draco had cornered her in the cupboard. Her distress had called to him as it did now.

As he transformed into himself, Voldemort watched her eyelids flutter. There was something delicate about her while sleeping, though the way she was dressed robbed her of anything innocent. He had not expected Draco's approach to giving Hermione the potion. Maybe having the Malfoy boy follow his father's footsteps had its strategic merits.

Now, however, the work was his alone. He took his wand from his sleeve and murmured a lifting spell on Hermione so that she hung limply in the air. He took the antidote for the Nightmare Potion from under the potions cupboard, storing it in a pocket. Then, he shifted the cupboard, pushing it out of the way of a hidden shaft through which he crawled as he directed Hermione ahead of him. He magicked the cupboard back to its place and shut the door to the shaft before continuing.

The experience of crawling through the small tunnel littered with the bodies and bones of dead rodents, while degrading, was oddly satisfying much more than maneuvering through toilet pipes. As a leader, he did less on his own than he had at the beginning, before the Death Eaters. It was why he made visits to the Forbidden Forest his exclusive domain, just to have something to _do_ besides sit and plan and curse and endure constant false subservience. The Lestranges, Avery, Nott, and Franz were the only servants of his who he felt proclaimed their loyalty with fully sincerity. But none but Bellatrix were capable of the precise tasks Voldemort required, and Voldemort knew Bellatrix was mad.

Finally, the shaft that he had used as a child to sneak about unnoticed, even by Pringle, abruptly opened into a room pierced in the middle by a spiral staircase. Voldemort wanted to go to the dungeons, so he directed Hermione's body downward. Her robes began to slide up her legs with blood rushing to her head, so he turned her around so that she descended feet first. Voldemort followed her.

The steps seemed to last forever as they passed room by room by room, but Voldemort knew they were close when the walls became damp and mossy. It was several stories later that his feet his flat ground. There were four stone doors and Voldemort exited through the one directly ahead of him. He halted Hermione and peered through the corridors, extending his extra sense that he had acquired from Nagini's poison. He smelled no emotion in the air but Hermione's fear with which he had grown quite familiar during her nightmares. With the coast clear, Voldemort slunk through the halls until he found yet another secret shaft, though this one led immediately into another room, one as large as the Great Hall, connected to the Chamber of Secrets, a chamber that extended much farther than anyone could ever conceive without the use of Parseltongue.

Inside lolled his Death Eaters. Someone had conjured a buffet table, others beds, or chairs. At Voldemort's entrance, everyone froze except those in the throes of passion. Voldemort led Hermione to one of the beds. She muttered in her sleep as he released her from the charm.

"Is this your 'mistress,' my lord? My, a fine piece of flesh," ventured Rosier.

"You'll not lay a hand on her," Voldemort instructed. "No one touch her without my permission. She is under the Nightmare Potion, and I will wake her when I desire to do so. Until then, stay quiet and amuse yourselves. Wormtail," he called.

"My lord," Wormtail answered, approaching his master hesitantly.

"Go to the Gryffindor Head Girl's room in your Animagus form. When you arrive, you'll see a cupboard in the private laboratory. In that cupboard, are small vials filled with a clear liquid and vials filled with a powdery blue liquid. Take a vial of clear liquid and pour half of it into the drain. Then place the vial onto the night table. Next, take her books and clothes and put them into her trunk at the foot of the bed. Leave the tank as it is. Shrink the trunk and its contents and bring them back here, again in your Animagus form. Was that simple enough for you to understand?"

Wormtail ran over the instructions once more through his head. Then he nodded and changed, scurrying out of the room.

"Is _that_ the Mudblood all this fuss is about?" a low voice drawled in disgust. "If my son…"

"Your son, _Lucius_, has paid his debt for his folly, and the blame is not entirely on him." Voldemort whipped around and shouted, "_Sanguinus!_"

Lucius Malfoy collapsed, writhing and screaming and rolling his eyes at the extreme pain flowing within his blood and erupting in his veins.

"Had you instructed your son properly, he would have known it was I he carried and not some poor beast. Because of _your_ mistake, I was treated as an abused pet and lost to the Mudblood."

"_Please_, master," Lucius wailed, "you don't—this Mudblood—top of class—brains of Potter…"

Voldemort sneered. How pleasant to see the high-class son of a whore plead for respite. "I know all that, Lucius, I lived with her for months. What of it?" He lifted the curse.

Lucius panted for breath as he replied, "Can we not use the girl against Harry Potter and the Order?"

Voldemort sighed dramatically. "Lucius, Lucius, do you think me so simple I have not considered any of this? Why do you think Hermione is here rather than alone in Gryffindor tower, or dead? Of course I will use her against the Potter boy. Unfortunately, she knows as little of the Order as we do. They never admitted her in. It is worth noting, however, that she acted illegally to work against us. Banned books, banned potions, banned spells—she has experimented with them."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Really? That self-righteous brat, that high-minded bitch, studying the Dark Arts?"

Voldemort nodded. "So when they finally realize she is missing, they will enter her room and find the remains of the illegal Nightmare Potion she obviously concocted herself. This will stop them in their tracks as they wonder whether she has thrown in her lot against them. They will be more concerned with her allegiance than her whereabouts so that we'll be able to return to the fortress without their interference. Then we can extract information from her until there is nothing left. She can be used as a false bargaining chip, or even as a weapon. She is a powerful young witch, but intrigued by Dark Magic. Imagine the look on Dumbledore's ancient face when he learns the extent his own Gryffindor pet, a Head Girl, has delved into forbidden arts." Voldemort chuckled at the thought.

"The girl," Lucius said, "if she is merely a bargaining chip, she could be added to the Harem. She is young, strong, healthy, and pretty."

"What is it to me if you have your women?" Voldemort dismissed. "But I foresee she will have other uses. Avery will stare at anything that moves and all Nott cares about is that her breasts are half falling from her bodice. The whole affair disgusts me."

"We go a long way back, the Mudblood and I," Lucius hissed, his words a savage caress as his eyes raked Hermione's face. "I have long wished to teach her her place."

Voldemort scowled, but repressed the increasing protectiveness of the snake-charming spell. "I'm afraid," Voldemort said, "the first coercion will be done with Crabbe and Goyle. It is their brute force I'll need first. You'll sink your teeth into her flesh after the interrogations. It is there you will redeem yourself from your error."

"My lord," Lucius began, "I beg your pardon, but why must we not harm the girl _yet_?"

Voldemort's passive mood swung into a violent temper. "You wish to teach Hermione her place? You'd do well to learn your own. You do not question my commands, you obey them! Now get out of my sight!"

Lucius ducked away from his master's notorious wrath and left Voldemort and Hermione alone. Activities that had halted during the exchange resumed with a wary, respectful eye on their master. Soon Voldemort sat on the edge of the bed where Hermione continued to sleep. If she did not wake in another few hours, he thought as Wormtail returned with the goods, he would give her the antidote. He had altered the potion to follow a time limit, but he was growing impatient.

_Enjoy your nightmares, little Hermione_, Voldemort thought wickedly. _You'll not see anything so pleasant for a while_. He wanted her awake when they stole her away for the horrors elsewhere.

Out of curiosity, Voldemort cast the Descrier spell that let him drift into her mind as she dreamed.

-----

**Author's notes: **

_Pesaduis obscurus_dark weight  
_Pesadia luminata_lightened weight  
Very rough translating and altering, but this is a fictional world.

The entire second half of this chapter was a completely unexpected twist for me. I knew where the story started, and I know where Hermione is going to end up, but I had trouble connecting the two. Draco was not intended to play a significant role at all... but there you go. Guess that writers don't have quite the control they imagine they do. It's always nice to let the 'what-if' factor lead you through a rough writing time.


	6. Chapter 5

**Title:** Abyss (05)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This nightmare was not used in an original work.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 5**

"Welcome to your N.E.W.T.s, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said primly. "If you would take a seat in the room, please." She gestured into a classroom pitch black except for a bright beam of light shining on a table and chair adorned only with a pen and paper.

"Aren't we supposed to use parchment?" Hermione asked.

McGonagall was horrified. "And kill all those poor goats? For shame, Miss Granger, and after you yourself lobbied for their preservation. Take your tests and don't be cruel."

Hermione gave McGonagall a baffled glance then settled down at the table, picking up the pen and looking at the first question.

_In your own words, discuss how and to what extent light is both a wave and a particle_, read the first question. Hermione's heart stopped.

"Professor McGonagall, we haven't learned physics this year!" Hermione shouted back at her retreating Professor. The woman was closing the door.

"You learned it all year in Muggle Studies, dear," McGonagall assured her before the door shut with an echoing boom. Hermione pounded on it helplessly before returning to the desk.

"I didn't take Muggle Studies this year, and I know they don't teach physics in their curriculum," Hermione muttered to herself. She answered the question to the best of her abilities, trying to wrack her brains for some memory of the lessons. If she happened to take insufficient notes for a subject, she could compile enough information from more auditory learning, but now… now her mind was simply a blank for the question.

She decided to move on, but nearly started crying as she read the next question.

_Describe Joyce's use of gnomon and simony in his _Dubliners_. Use specific references from the book._

She had read _Dubliners_ when she was nine and had been searching for something to read among her mother and father's library. She recalled very little of the readings because she had seen no need to retain it. In desperation, she glanced at the other questions. None of them had anything to do with magic.

_Using a single strip of paper, demonstrate the Dragon Curve fractal and describe Mendelsohn's history on the subject of fractals._

_Explain Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty and how Peter Brook uses it in his movie adaptation of Weiss' _Marat/Sade

_Write an essay on the importance of international cooperation in a foreign language of your choice._

_In five hundred words or less, explain Bach's mathematical genius._

_List the Pre-Socratics and describe their objective and beliefs._

The questions continued in this vein as Hermione hyperventilated in frustration and genuine fear until Professor Snape strode into the room, and with a wave of his wand, lit the essays on fire.

"How… disappointing, Miss Granger. And here even I was hoping you'd pass. The Headmaster is most displeased. I'm afraid a Head Girl who fails her N.E.W.T.s is expelled. You'll never get into university after this." His hands hooked into her robes and dragged her from the room and out of Hogwarts.

"No!" Hermione screamed. "You never taught me any of it! It wasn't in the curriculum! They were all Muggle school questions!"

"Nonsense, girl," Snape snapped. "You should know everything that was on that exam. I taught you some of it myself."

"I couldn't remember any of it!" Hermione began to cry, wailing like the Weeping Woman of the caves. "There was nothing there!"

"Tell that to the Ministry of Magic, Miss Granger," Snape replied with no mercy. "It's to the Forbidden Forest you're going. It's where we expel all our failed Head Girls."

A figure fully cloaked waited for them at the boundaries of the Forest. He extended his hand for Hermione's.

"There's always plenty of room for more," said the cloaked man. He removed his hood and Hermione could see the serpentine head of Belthazar with the skeletal hands of the dead. "Come, Hermione, you'll find your own kind here."

"No, Professor Snape, don't make me go with him! He's a servant of Lord Voldemort, I know it," Hermione cried. She clung tight to her Professor, but Snape pushed her off and Belthazar pulled her away, hands gentle but firm against her arms.

"You're wrong, Miss Granger, as usual," Snape mocked over his shoulder as he walked away. "He _is_ Lord Voldemort."

"No!" Hermione screamed again, struggling to get free, but Belthazar held on with a grip or iron.

"Come now, dear," Belthazar said gently, "the Forest is not at all bad once you get used to it."

Hermione continued to bite and kick and scream.

"You may even learn something," he whispered in her ear.

Hermione's protests slowed. "Learn something?" she asked, hope shining through the tears. She knew she should not respond so readily, it was not reasonable, but she could not help her optimistic nature.

Belthazar nodded and loosened his hold. His thin hand brushed the tears from her cheeks until she became calm. She set her hand in the white, bony hand. His long fingers encircled the proffered hand, and he led her into the Forbidden Forest.

"There is much in the Forest that has still eluded our efforts to discover them," Belthazar explained as the pillar-like trees engulfed them in darkness, save the light their plant essences emitted. There was no path. It seemed to Hermione that Belthazar was leading her arbitrarily through the gaps in the trees.

They came to a clearing.

"Ah, Lucius, my friend, how does your project fare?" Belthazar asked.

Lucius Malfoy looked up from where he was torturing Ginny Weasley against one of the trees. A trickle of blood ran down her chin from the corner of her mouth and her eyes stared blankly. It was then Hermione realized she was dead. Her bare body was held up by what seemed a lover's embrace.

"Does she want to join us?" Lucius inquired as though he had just been drinking tea. He let Ginny's corpse fall to the ground. Hermione let out a strangled gasp and put Belthazar between her and Malfoy.

Belthazar chuckled but declined for Hermione. "Come," he told her, taking her hand again, "there is much to see."

"But…" Hermione swallowed and forced herself to continue. She had the rest of her N.E.W.T-less life to mourn. The blank, glassy marbles that had once been Ginny's warm, compassionate, bright eyes haunted her, accusing. _If you had passed your N.E.W.T.s, this would never have happened_, the mental ghost of Ginny seemed to accuse. Hermione felt a pang of guilt.

As Hermione and Belthazar walked farther into the forest, they heard the ominous sound of centaur hoofbeats. Hermione tensed, but Belthazar assured her, "They will not harm you. You are a part of this forest now. They will see you as just another creature. But they've obviously found an intruder, and they don't like wizards anymore."

"Because of Professor Umbridge," Hermione said to herself. Belthazar nodded.

There was a desperate scream, then noises of struggle. Abruptly, these noises ceased and a head rolled across Hermione's and Belthazar's path. Ron's open mouth and swollen eyes gaped at her. There was a clear imprint of a giant hoof on his face. The strips of flesh hanging from the neck caught on a branch so that the head hung upside-down, Ron's red hair clashing with the blood from his neck.

Hermione stuffed a fist into her mouth to keep from crying out. Belthazar noted her reaction then cocked his head. "Oh dear," he murmured, "it looks like Mr. Weasley lost his head. I had wondered if he had one to begin with."

"What?!" Hermione cried indignantly.

"Apologies, Hermione," Belthazar said. "I should not speak ill of the dead." He chanted a few words under his breath and Ron's head disappeared.

"Wait," Hermione said, "where did Ron go?"

"To the cornfield, Hermione. He's safer there then here. The spiders like human flesh, and I don't suppose you want to leave him to the dark beasts of the forest. Come, we must continue."

He pulled her through denser copses of trees until he froze, a thin mask of fear on his otherwise expressionless face. The emotion was unexpected; Hermione had always found Belthazar to be so sure of himself.

"Don't move," he instructed.

Hermione's eyes widened at a werewolf crouched in front of them. Its yellow eyes darted from one potential prey to the other. His eyes lingered on Hermione, who, of the two, was human. He bared his teeth, sharp, red-stained fangs dripping with dangerous saliva. His hackles rose as a threat to Belthazar.

"Careful," Belthazar hissed, "get ready to run."

The werewolf roared. It did not growl or snarl; it roared and leaped forward at Hermione. Belthazar whipped out his wand, but Hermione raised her hand, hoping her rings were still on her fingers and that her lycanthe had not somehow disappeared. They had not, and the beast whimpered and backed away as though struck. He began to pant, whining high in his head, and he looked ashamed.

"Hermione," Belthazar muttered, "I never noticed your protective charms. I will admit I never noticed them. I'm impressed. It was a clever idea, very clever idea."

Hermione felt ridiculously pleased at Belthazar's amazement, though she kept a sharp eye on the werewolf, who slunk away, defeated by her preparations.

"Does this kind of thing happen a lot?" Hermione asked, concerned.

"Oh, yes," Belthazar answered, guiding her through a tangle of roots that were shifting balefully. "All the time. You get used to it, become a part of it. Some of it isn't even real, what you see. Soon, you will be a hallucination of some unfortunate traveler, too. It's rather interesting when you watch it. You see the forest's interpretation of you; it's far more accurate than a mirror."

Hermione did not know how she felt about being only a figment of someone's imagination. It made her feel disconnected from reality. But Belthazar left no time for inner turmoil as they plunged through the Forest. They passed more vignettes of terrors, but Hermione pointedly looked straight ahead. She thought some of the visions tried to approach her, beckoned to her, but she ignored them to the best of her ability.

"Here we are," Belthazar announced, entering a clearing. "Welcome."

There were two lines of cloaked and hooded men, one in bright scarlet cloaks, the other in black cloaks and masked hoods. The Aurors and the Death Eaters.

"No," Hermione whispered. She reeled to run, but Belthazar tightened his hold and Hermione jerked back. She continued to pull frantically.

An Auror stepped forward and pushed his hood from his head, revealing the heavily scarred face of Alastor Moody. His magical eye fixed on her with hatred. He unrolled a sheet of parchment and began to read:

"Hermione Granger, it has come to our attention that you have practiced magic that is vile and originated from unseen forces of darkness. The following are your crimes:

"Adopting a snake that was not registered or sterilized by the Ministry.

"Concocting illegal potions such as the Gut-wrenching Potion, the Draught of the Living Dead, the Slow Death, Monstrous Draft, the Love Potion, the Nightmare Potion, etc.

"Experimentations in the charms that counter the following curses, hexes, or jinxes that are illegal or inappropriate for Hogwarts students that were also used: the Nightmare Curse, the Confundus Curse, the 13th Jinx, the Wailing Curse, the 8-legged Hex, Serpent's Bath, the Fang-Flinging Hex, Venemous Secretions, the Hypnotist's Charm, the Hex of Delight, Melancholia, the Suicide Curse, the Elephant Jinx, etc.

"Fraternizing with persons sinister in nature.

"Purchasing illegal or banned books.

"And… Disrespecting high-ranking Ministry of Magic officials.

"Due to the heinousness of your crimes, you, Hermione Granger, are hereby exiled from all wizarding areas that represent all that is good and against the dark acts you have committed, including but not limited to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the town of Hogsmeade, and the haven Diagon Alley. A radical group known informally as the Death Eaters have requested your attendance to their gathering instead of the authorities meting your original punishment of prison time in Azkaban. The Ministry of Magic now delivers you into their hands." Moody glared at her then rolled up the parchment. With a crook of his finger, the Aurors filed away into the darkness of the Forest.

Hermione fell to the ground, weeping like a little child. Belthazar knelt down and dried her tears.

"Welcome home," he whispered into the shell of her ear.

Hermione gasped and crawled back. "What? Don't touch me."

"Relax, Hermione. We have common ground, all of us," Belthazar reassured her. "You'll fit right in."

"No," she hissed, panicking. "This is one of those hallucinations you told me about. You're all just a great hallucination. You're not real."

"If you are real, Hermione, we are real as well. Does a hallucination know she is a hallucination? From our perspective, you could easily be a hallucination for us. Are you real, Hermione?" Belthazar stroked her head soothingly.

Hermione relaxed under his hands. "I think so," she replied.

"Then you must trust us," Belthazar said.

Hermione nodded and climbed to her feet with Belthazar's support.

"Are you Lord Voldemort?"

Belthazar gave her a sideways look. "Don't ask me that question, Hermione."

Hermione quivered.

"No," Belthazar said forcefully, "no, don't be afraid. You're one of us now. The Ministry has given you to us."

"Will you… hurt me?"

"Only you can hurt yourself," Belthazar replied.

Hermione was unsure of where the avoidance of her questions was. She faced the Death Eaters with chin high.

"One thing, Hermione," said one Death Eater, stepping forward, much as Auror Moody had done. He pulled back his head to reveal long white-blond hair. Lucius Malfoy. Hermione gasped and stumbled backward. Lucius looked confused.

"You… you killed Ginny… you…" Hermione stuttered.

"I don't understand," Lucius said, ignorant of the scene Hermione had watched. _A hallucination_, Hermione thought. Then she realized he had called her "Hermione," not "Mudblood." She was instantly suspicious.

He repeated, "One thing, Hermione. You need to be officially initiated into the organization."

"Where is your master?" Hermione inquired. "Can you initiate me without his approval?"

Lucius smiled with a subtle leer. "He is watching you. You just cannot see him properly. He knew you were coming, Hermione."

"Why are you calling me Hermione?" she challenged him.

"It is your name."

"That never stopped you from calling me Mudblood before," Hermione said.

Lucius bowed his head. "I am compelled to give you more respect than I have in the past."

Hermione tried to catch him in a lie but failed, so she said, "What kind of initiation is it?"

Lucius smiled/leered again. "It's nothing big or difficult, and it is necessary for all recruits. You must choose one of us to have you. Simple, really."

Hermione's eyes widened and she began pulling more urgently at Belthazar's grip. He was not giving her up.

"So I really did see you, it wasn't my imagination."

"What, the Weasley brat?" Lucius snarled. "I haven't touched the girl."

"And if I refuse your offer?" Hermione retorted, resorting to a full tug-of-war battle for her freedom. Belthazar had a grip of steel.

"You go to where the failures are," Belthazar replied. "It is far underground, you'll never see sunlight again." His voice was cold, though his red eyes betrayed a bit of warmth. Hermione found that his eyes enchanted her, drew her in.

She had not broken their gaze when she said to all the Death Eaters, "Remove your hoods. I need to see you to decide." A quaver in her voice belied her casual demeanor. She had avoided such an encounter so far, but it seemed like there was no other alternative. As she began walking down the line of Death Eaters, she wondered if she was not being rash. Surely there were other ways…

"Professor Snape?" Hermione murmured cautiously. He gave her a curt nod. The irritation in his eyes that was so familiar transformed into bafflement, then a languid fascination. Hermione's insides trembled with revulsion.

Lucius gestured them to the center of the clearing. He conjured a blanket to soften the wild ground. Hermione led Snape with her eyes to the makeshift bed.

He was not gentle, but brutal, savage, consuming. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, bit down on her lip and sucked passionately on the welling blood there. Hermione screamed into his mouth, but the only response given to her wordless plea was cruel laughter.

He tore her robes like they were merely sheets of parchment. Her eyes darted frantically, looking for someone, anyone, to help her, but even Belthazar was laughing, eyes tinged with evil. _He was Lord Voldemort_. The entire deception tore at her insides like an untamed beast clawing to escape confinement.

The friction of him inside incited a burning, blistering, ripping sensation that throbbed and increased with every thrust. Finally, Snape forced himself into her one last, agonizing time. He slid away and, joining with the rest of the Death Eaters' mocking, returned to his place in line.

"No!" she shouted in weak authority. "Get away!"

"Now, now, Hermione," Belthazar chided, "you gave in so easily, and they always like a little sport. All work and no play, after all." He clicked his tongue.

"Get away!" she cried again, searching in the remains of her robes for her wand.

"Don't you remember?" Belthazar said with a mask of sorrow. "You dropped it at the edge of the forest." Hermione did not remember this, but she knew her wand was nowhere to be found.

"You're defenseless, Hermione," Belthazar whispered softly. "It's us, or failure." He pointed with one white bony finger to narrow steps behind the Death Eaters. Shadows from the light of fire shifted on the stairs. "There is nowhere else you can go, no one you can go to. What to do, Hermione, oh, what to do?" He laughed, an icy cold, high-pitched bark, and stroked her shoulders.

Hermione cried out and stumbled past the Death Eaters, pushing them aside in her earnestness to reach the stairs. Even the knowledge of failure would be better than sharing their beds.

Now Belthazar's countenance showed a genuine regret; none of the Death Eaters pursued her.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, Hermione," he sighed, waving goodbye.

Then she lost her footing on the first step and she plummeted down. Unbeknownst to Hermione, a door covered the entrance and locked firmly.

When Hermione reached the ground, her head struck the hard earth, causing her vision to blur and spin. Two hands gripped the sides of her head and lifted her, applying almost unbearable pressure to her ears. They set her in a chair and tied her hands and feet so that she could not escape. They attached blinders to her eyes and fitted her head into a device so that she could not keep from facing forward. All she could see were shadows of people doing this to her as her vision cleared.

"This is where all the failed Head Girls and Boys come," someone said in her ear. They laughed and backed away, then spoke in a normal voice. "Welcome to Ignorance."

The words echoed off the flickering walls, combining with the screams of all the failures from all the years. After a few minutes of letting the horror sink in, Hermione joined them.


	7. Chapter 6

**Title:** Abyss (06)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 6**

Hermione's eyes flew open, and it seemed like the screaming and the dance of the fire continued. But then she blinked and realized it was she who was still screaming and the firelight was on the ceiling rather than the walls.

"I thought you would never wake up. I had to give you the antidote." Hermione started at the unfamiliar voice. It continued, "Your nightmares are rather… illuminating, let's say, as well as interesting."

Hermione jerked up into a sitting position. All the Death Eaters she had seen in her dream and in Ministry records were still in various forms of leisure. They had all turned to stare at her. She began to scramble back until she realized she was sitting on a mattress and a man was sitting next to her. She recognized the serpentine face. Instead of screaming, which she had done a remarkable amount of times in her dream, she froze, staring into his eyes.

…His dark red eyes with slits for pupils that she had seen so often that year and had never connected with Harry's description of the Dark Lord. She had been harboring Lord Voldemort.

As Voldemort watched the dawning comprehension, he laughed, an icy-cold, high-pitched laugh. "From one nightmare into another, Hermione?" His laughs trailed off into a hum.

"My Nightmare potion," she whispered.

"I appropriated a vial of it and its antidote. I thought I had altered the potion so that you would wake up at a certain time, but I've never experimented on the potion before; my quantities cancelled themselves out."

"Draco."

"He did not know his mission and blundered straight into your hands. Both he and his father have been punished." Lucius, who stood nearby, shifted uneasily.

"Belthazar."

"I liked the name. He's my Animagus. I didn't trust anyone else to do it right. I should have continued to follow that principle into even the simplest tasks involved in this mission."

"The mission?"

Voldemort smiled, indulging her confusion with regards to the earth-shattering revelation. "Infiltration, of course. Damage to Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and any number of adversaries. My venom can fell an elephant in minutes. The Potter boy would be all too easy."

"And you didn't because of the anti-venom Madam Pomfrey made," Hermione said, cognition returning, and with it, a new horror.

"Precisely."

"And I interfered. I'm in the way."

"Precisely."

Hermione lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye, Gryffindor courage welled up inside her like a hot spring. For the last three years, she found this trait surfacing more and more often, confirming the Sorting Hat's decision.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, no quaver revealing the ripple of fear that lingered, spirit notwithstanding.

Voldemort's smile died. She was not in her nightmare with emotions vulnerable and raw. No, in reality, she could steel herself for an attack. He would not disappoint her.

"I'm kidnapping you," Voldemort answered, picking at an invisible piece of lint on his robes, "to call a spade a spade. Surely you did not expect to escape this war unscathed."

"No."

"But you had hoped. Do you still hope?"

She looked within herself. Yes, there was still a weak, pathetic sliver of hope—that for some anonymous reason she could be the turning point for Voldemort or one of the Death Eaters. She supposed everyone had that little bit of vanity that they could somehow make some psychological difference. She assented to Voldemort's question.

He sneered. "You won't when my Death Eaters are through with you. I understand you are academically acquainted with their methods. That's what you were researching, wasn't it?" Voldemort beckoned to two hulking Death Eaters with faces like dumb gorillas. They approached the bed with a sack in their hands.

"You aren't the mistress of Belthazar any longer, Hermione," Voldemort said, standing and walking away casually. "You are now the possession of Lord Voldemort. Hide her eyes and bind her, Crabbe, Goyle."

Voldemort's retreating back and self-satisfied smile was the last thing Hermione saw before the fathers of the Crabbe and Goyle she knew pulled the sack over her head and tied it closed around her neck so that she could neither see nor breathe well. She fought as they bound her wrists and ankles with rough, magical rope. She continued to struggle as one of them slung her over his shoulder. Her efforts slowed as it grew harder and harder to breathe in all the oxygen she needed through the thin holes of the burlap. She felt slim fingers reach into the sleeves of her robes and take her wand.

"Can't let you have that," said Voldemort's voice, muffled by the thick material between them. "I know how resourceful you can be."

Hermione screamed in fury and kicked and thrashed, but the man holding her grabbed a tighter hold around her legs and began walking. She ceased her struggles again, hoping to hear or smell something that might indicate where they were. At one point she heard drips of water onto stone and splashes of shoes in puddles, but this did not help. And all she could smell was her own breath trapped in the bag.

She did not know how long they carried her; she lost all track of time. She may have even miraculously dozed off. She was startled awake only once, when the torchlight disappeared into darkness and icy air blew up her robes. Footsteps crunched against fallen leaves. She must have dozed off again because the next thing she knew, she could hear hoof-beats and rickety carriage wheels on stone flags. Her head bumped against the carriage walls and the massive shoulders of the thugs besides her. A low chuckle in front of her revealed that Voldemort was there as well. In an act of defiance, she kicked out her bound feet and hit someone in the knee. She heard no response expect the rustle of the man to her left who took hold of her legs and set them in his lap while the other did the same with her head. Her side itched terribly.

When the carriages finally stopped, the shift of freezing air currents announced their arrival at their apparent destination.

"Take her to the interrogation room," Voldemort murmured before exiting the carriage.

Crabbe or Goyle slung her back unceremoniously over his shoulder, jolting her breath from her lungs. He gave a dull, amused bark as she gasped for what little air circulation there was. She saw red spots on the insides of her eyelids like red flowers. A few rogue tears rolled up her forehead and into her hair. Had her nightmare ever ended?

Then they were inside with torches flickering with a warmer light. There was a tangle of voices that echoed, like in the cave of her dream. She shifted slightly because the man's shoulder was poking into her bladder. The rumble of the man's stupid laughter rippled through her as he moved her back.

It was too soon that she heard a door open, and she was thrown to the floor. Her hip and shoulder took the initial brunt of the fall, but her knee and head hit the shackles on the floor. Tears promptly jumped to her eyes, though the pain only lasted a few seconds.

Her hands and feet were unbound, but her wrists were pushed into the cold shackles. They tightened and pulled her so that she was sitting with her back against the stone wall. Her tail bone sat on a stone flag. She knew that this discomfort was only a small taste of what was going to be done to her. She slumped into her bonds. She did not even look up as the bag was removed from her head.

"You look familiar," said a nervous voice. "Have I met you before?"

Hermione lifted her face to the man.

"Wormtail!" she exclaimed, genuinely surprised at his presence.

"I _have_ seen you before," Wormtail said, still studying her countenance. "Where-?"

"I had longer hair… and different teeth."

Wormtail squinted his eyes, searching deeper.

Hermione gave him another clue. "We met in the Shrieking Shack, you fucking traitor."

His whole visage revealed his embarrassment. "You're Potter's friend. You're… Hermione Granger… the intelligent one."

"And you're the cowardly one, if I remember it correctly," Hermione retorted.

"Claws in, Hermione," Voldemort said, ducking under the low doorway of the room. "And while we are on the subject of old acquaintances—last year, were you a prefect?"

She replied, "You have to be a prefect to be Head Girl."

Voldemort smiled. "Of course. When did you start your little… experimentations?"

"Last year." Her voice shook as snippets of memory drifted to the top of her mind.

Voldemort's smile broadened, though the change was more disconcerting on a serpent's face than a man's. There was a nasty curve to his almost lipless mouth. "And, pray tell, Hermione, have you ever experimented with the liliath flower?" At Hermione's reaction, Voldemort laughed, and his voice jarred her to the bone. "Hermione, Hermione. You really have changed your hair, it's amazing how much of a difference that makes, don't you agree, Wormtail?" He gestured to Hermione for Wormtail's benefit. "She has been practicing the Dark Arts for more than a year now. Can you imagine a Head Girl flouting the law so easily?"

"I can easily imagine a Head Boy flouting the law," Hermione hissed.

Wormtail sneered, eyeing Hermione. "And you call me a traitor."

"I wasn't practicing the Dark Arts for the Dark Arts' sake!" Hermione shouted at him. "I didn't do it because I wanted to be powerful or feared and because I wanted to be a part of your side. I didn't do it because I wanted to destroy or because I'm afraid. I did it so I could find out how the Dark Arts can be defeated. I had to study the Arts themselves to learn how to destroy them. So that if the Order ever realized I didn't mind putting myself into danger, when they understood I could really help them, I would be prepared."

Wormtail, at least, was fairly abashed. Voldemort, however, let his obvious mirth at her idealism tinge his crimson eyes with malice.

"Yes," he hissed with relish. "But it never occurred to you that the Order had good reason, maybe a reason you didn't know, to keep you from their core. Maybe that reason is why you are here now. Maybe you are just too valuable for them. Maybe you're too intelligent, too daring, too resourceful for your own good. Maybe that fool of a white wizard knew you'd be an easy target to us and easily persuaded to reveal information. Let me assure you, Hermione, my Death Eaters are quite adept at breaking a woman," he murmured, running a finger over the delicate curve of her jaw. "I know your fears."

Her eyes darted to the side, where Crabbe and Goyle were shifting uncomfortably where they stood. She trembled in spite of herself.

"Release me," Voldemort whispered, almost under his breath. He slid her wand into one of her hands, holding the wrist tightly so that she winced, though it did not hide her bafflement at the imperative.

"Release me from this ridiculous spell," he hissed.

Hermione's brows contracted. "I don't under-"

"The snake-charming spell, you ignorant girl. Release me from these bindings you've unwittingly forced upon me." His words remained low so that Crabbe, Goyle, and Wormtail could not hear the humiliating words.

Revelation lit up Hermione's eyes, and she had to fight a triumphant grin. She was defeated and the bubble of laughter betrayed her scorn. Voldemort gritted his teeth in fury.

He murmured, "Fool of a child, I have my servants who would destroy you. All I have to do is give the word. One little word. For the both of us, Hermione."

Hermione's amusement died. But the snake-charming spell… it extended to his human body as well?

"You can't hurt me," Hermione said wonderingly.

"They can," Voldemort snapped. "I've no qualms against watching you be beaten, used, and killed before my eyes. You are fortunate I want you alive. Be wise, Hermione, as I know you can be. Release me!" The simmering in the cavity of his chest burst in a rush of uncontrolled frustration, and his voice soared in furious pitch. Hermione flinched under the blow.

"No," she replied almost affectionately.

Voldemort lifted a hand to hit her but found his will snagged by the spell.

"So be it," he murmured, reining in his violence. "Wormtail, if you would please remove her robes. Be gentle. They are of fine quality I'm sure Miss Granger never appreciated. I don't want them ruined."

Wormtail's eyes widened with a mix of apprehension and nervous excitement. "You want me to-"

"Remove her robes." Voldemort stepped back and prepared to brace himself for his protective reaction to her predicament.

Hermione gazed upon him, mouth set in a stoic line. She raised an eyebrow.

He gave her a tight smile. "Do not flatter yourself that the sight of you naked will affect me in the slightest. I have long since foregone that pleasure. Your body means little more to me than any animal."

As Wormtail's increasingly unsteady fingers fumbled on the ties of the underdress, Hermione observed that while all three Death Eaters became shiftier as her breasts and belly and thighs were bared to everyone's view, Voldemort did not blink an eye in pleasure. He merely twirled her wand around his fingers and just watched. Voldemort Banished the outer robes, but the dress was strapless, so it gaped open.

Wormtail cursed in admiration. Hermione did not think Crabbe and Goyle had enough blood in their brains to make a coherent statement. Goyle had already begun to undo his trousers.

Wormtail reached to touch the shadowed swell of her breast with his silver hand.

"Got your thirty pieces of silver, didn't you?" Hermione spat. Wormtail jerked back as though burned.

"Indeed," Voldemort said. "Wormtail, go ahead. She can't hurt you."

"Is this the only way you can touch a girl?" Hermione continued, kicking out with her legs.

Voldemort smirked.

Wormtail's brows contracted and his hand plunged to her breast in determination. He fondled and molded her breast as though he had never felt one before. Hermione's face and ears turned red, and she thrashed against him. Crabbe and Goyle removed their trousers, revealing the full extent of their bulk. Unlike their children, they consisted entirely of rippling, straining muscle, and one leg was practically the size of her waist. Hermione froze.

"They're too…" she whispered.

"You have a choice to make, Hermione. With a snap of my fingers, their self-control will shatter, and you will find yourself at the mercy of two capable Death Eaters. It can all go away for one simple spell."

"Never," she muttered, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged to mask the frustration inside. "It's your body, not mine." Then he walked to Crabbe and Goyle and whispered to them, "Do not take her until she is unconscious. She is not to die, and there are to be no chronic repercussions. Bruises and a few scratches are fine, but nothing that scars or breaks. Understood? You can screw her when she can't feel it—she'll certainly feel it when she wakes up again."

The two mountains looked dimly disappointed at having to hold themselves back, but unlike their offspring, their violence had technique, and Voldemort knew they could follow his orders. MacNair would be best for this kind of work, but the executioner sometimes developed a fondness for his victims, especially the younger ones. At least Crabbe and Goyle were not intelligent enough to form an emotional attachment.

Voldemort snapped his fingers and turned away, prepared for her screams and his Death Eater's own bestial sounds.

Wormtail protested several times before he was shoved out of the way, falling so that his lord could see him. He felt slighted that Lord Voldemort had mentioned only two capable Death Eaters, but he was willing to try harder. Voldemort stayed him with a hand and shook his head mockingly.

"You'll have her eventually," he murmured. "Let Crabbe and Goyle sate themselves. Watching them should suffice for you right now." Wormtail flushed—his master would never let him forget the several times he had been caught with his pants down and his hand oiled in what he had thought was a private room. "There is little you can hide from me, Wormtail," Voldemort said.

Hermione gave an unrestrained, blood-curling scream. Voldemort winced, the sound ripping through him and pulling at his spell strings. He turned around as another fist bludgeoned her face so that her face was symmetrically yellow and red and swollen. Goyle, with a marriage of discreet abuse, pounded her abdomen in just the right places and with just the right force where she would not bleed internally but a belated bruise would settle like a corpse rising to the surface of water. Then Crabbe plundered her mouth, unable to restrain himself to mere violence, smothering her screams and making her gag in disgust as she struggled to breathe.

Voldemort stifled the urge to kill his two henchmen and merely walked forward, placing a halting hand on Crabbe's and Goyle's shoulders. The muscles of their necks and shoulders and genitals strained to harness themselves at their master's request.

Voldemort bent over Hermione, whose eyes had glazed over and whose mouth had gone slack in shock and physical agony. He fingered her tears away. Hermione focused on him, pleading. He had never expected such exquisite trembling from her, and he wanted to bathe in it, wallow in his victory.

"What do we say, Hermione?" he chided, taking her face in his hand in a subtle act of dominance.

"Please," she begged, "oh, please, I never thought…" Her lips quivered and her breath hitched in her throat.

"My dear Hermione, you know how to make it stop." He brought his face closer, the intimacy of the position terribly repressive to her. She tried to pull back, but his fingers tightened. "Only you can stop this."

She closed her eyes and began to struggle full force.

"You know it's no use, Hermione," he murmured. "You know I'll have your compliance. I'll break you."

Hermione's lids lifted just long enough for her to say, "I know you'll have your way. But I… I want to watch you _squirm_."

He resisted reacting in the way she wanted him to and stepped away, maintaining his possessive contact with her until she pulled away of her own volition.

"Wormtail, prepare her quarters, second floor dungeons, farthest to your left."

"Yes, my lord," Wormtail said, reluctant to leave but wary of consequences if he tried to return to his experimentation with Hermione.

Voldemort turned himself and said just before he closed the door, "Continue as you like. When you're finally finished with her, bring her to her new room. _She is still to be alive_. As you were."

Then he shut the door hard, drowning out the screams from the room, but not the ones in his head. He moaned, pressing two fingers to his temple. He tried to walk to his own quarters, but the farther away he walked, the louder Hermione's screams became and the more that nauseous knot in his stomach twisted. She was holding him back!

When he could stand it no more, he grabbed an expensive porcelain vase from a sideboard and threw it against the wall with a scream. Then he looked for another breakable object to throw, anything to channel his repressed passion against the humiliation the girl had caused him.

It was then all went quiet, and, falling to the ground, panting and sweating, he knew she was unconscious.

888

When Hermione woke up, she found herself chained once more, but this time in a room lit only by the light of the moon. She did not know how long she had been unconscious. She knew that she was cold and naked, covered only by a thin, damp, practically moldy blanket. The drafts through the dungeon blew light breezes with fingers like icicles so that the wet blanket and wet, mossy stone beneath her made her even more frozen. She shivered in convulsions, her teeth chattering furiously and the muscles in her arms and the sides of her neck struggling to bring her spasms under control. She knew that by the time she stopped, whether by warmth, exhaustion, or sickness, she would cramp.

From what she remembered of her beatings, she should have massive internal bleeding, but Crabbe and Goyle must have had a little skill with their wands, so there was only faint bruising along her abdomen, back, buttocks, knees, and shins. The cuts from Goyle's teeth on her breasts were still there, blood cracking dryly next to the scabs. Crabbe's small knife left shallow wounds on her shoulders—they broke open with her shivering and bled. The bruises on her cheekbones and the bump on the back of her head that knocked her unconscious as well as the finger marks around her neck were the worst to touch. She was glad she did not have a mirror. She did, however, feel the effects of a spell on all the remaining hurt from her ordeal. She wondered whether they were to aid or hinder the mending of the wounds.

It was an utterly miserable night, and she slipped into a shallow sleep between the elements and exhaustion every few hours. She did observe how dismal her surroundings were. The dungeon was made of a thick, heavy, time-smoothed stone slick with moss, algae, and a constant stream of water running down the walls. The room was only three-sided; the fourth wall consisted of metal bars like a prison, but much thicker. It would take Crabbe or Goyle to even budge the door. The opening led to a thin hallway and faced another cell, similar to hers, but drier. Hermione suspected Voldemort had given her the worst dungeon of them all. Second floor dungeon? How many were there?

"Hello?" she called. Only the echo answered until it was split in twain and the echoes echoed. She heard no alternate reply.

Hermione wrapped the sodden blanket about her and huddled in a corner, listening to a steady drip somewhere in the dungeon. Her new chains afforded her adequate mobility to a hole in the side of the walls she supposed was her lavatory. A slip of a window high in a wall let in a minimal amount of moonlight, but it let her know when it was morning. The slate gray sky was lighter than night. From the faint drumming and occasional rumble of thunder, Hermione gleaned that the unusually bad weather had not ceased. No one came to her but a few scrawny rats that nibbled at the algae and stared at her in curiosity. It would have been almost touching if it had not been so cold. By the end of her first day, she could no longer feel her ears, her nose, her toes, her chin, her nipples, or her sex. Her buttocks, breasts, shoulder blades, elbows, and knees were beginning to follow.

By the end of the week, she had long since stopped shivering—she did not care or notice that her wounds had healed unusually quickly, and that only the bruises on her face remained in a mild green, blue, and yellow. She had to lick the walls for moisture against her dry throat. Her stomach had forgotten its hunger two days ago, though the thought of a steak dinner with mashed potatoes made her mouth water in a rush and her stomach writhe in barren agony. All her mind could concentrate on was how to stay warm

A few days later, lips tinged slightly blue and eyes red, she had to think of something else.

Instead she thought of how stupid she had been not to realize all circumstantial evidence pointed to Belthazar: his understanding of English, his attentive stares when she was experimenting on a potion or charm, his hatred of Harry and Professor Dumbledore, as well as his hatred for Draco—how angry he must have been at Malfoy's incompetence—and his very nature as an Indian cobra in Europe.

And she had shared her bed with him! Enjoyed his presence! And the numbers of things she might have done in front of Belthazar, not knowing he was an Animagus of the Dark Lord against whom she was directly working… Her face would struggle to burn when she thought of how she had stroked his scales and invited him to help with her potions, those times she had refused to take him to the authorities despite his behavior on grounds that he was misunderstood. And that Dumbledore had veritably made her keep him…

She had three more days to ponder her idiocy. Her stomach no longer cared about her indifference and rivaled her desire to stay warm. Her thoughts were numb. The bruises on her face healed much more slowly than the others, but now they were only a vivid green and yellow. The worse of it was over.

It was at this point that two house-elves came to her and released her from her bonds, but led her magically into a living area of the building. They pushed her into a room and shut the door behind her, locking it with their own special spells, just in case. In front of a blazing fire almost the size of her was a claw-footed tub half filled with water and bubbles and a small table holding a cup of water and a plate of fresh bread—light, but what she needed.

Her knees began trembling, and the hand that held her blanket around her naked body loosened and let the cloth fall to the floor. She stood there for a moment, letting the warmth lick at her frozen skin. When she felt she could bear the self-inflicted torture no more, she stepped into the tub. The water was not hot, which would have been a nasty shock, but lukewarm, hot enough for her. She sighed and nearly fell asleep at the bliss that crested through her body. She managed to stay awake and partake of the bread and pure water, a blessing after algae-filled water and nothing to eat. Everything was perfect.

Until the door behind her opened.

Hermione did not notice it right away, so happy was she with the paradise offered her; she had not even thought of ulterior motives. When the door closed, however, there was a distinct click, and Hermione stiffened, hesitant to break the fantasy.

When Wormtail's hand slipped into the water to fondle her breast and as his silver hand grasped her chin to turn her head around for his lips, all she could do was blink back resigned tears.

888

Hermione had not even the energy to fight him. Never had Hermione imagined that one man could apply such deliberation and even contemplation to the act of sex. She certainly had not expected that from nervous, fidgeting Peter Pettigrew. He was clumsy in some respects, but he continued in the same patience with himself. Hermione could only feel lucky to be in a real, soft bed that yielded to her weight so perfectly that she had fallen asleep before Wormtail could even touch her lower than her waist, just as she had been lucky she had not had to experience the pain of Crabbe and Goyle taking her—only its after-affects. She felt a little stretched now. She woke up sometime during that night with Wormtail's balding head of baby fine hair pillowed against her breast, his mouth near a startlingly aching nipple. She could not remember what he had done to it to make it hurt so. His silver hand was on the sensitive flesh of her upper thighs, and he held her to him affectionately.

Hermione was ready to vomit—or at least hit him for making her be so close to him, to this extent like lovers, feeling his skin, his body against her in ways she had never wanted to feel him. To his sole credit, he had been gentle, but he still made her stomach want to heave. She eased herself from him, pulling a real blanket from the pile on top of them. Wormtail shifted, and Hermione shuddered in disgust. She wrapped the blanket, warm from their bodies, around her then stumbled about for a door. Her hand eventually bumped against one—she was almost ready to give up in despair—and opened it, backing up out the door to keep as quiet as she could so that he would not wake up and prevent her escape.

She turned around and jumped. Lucius Malfoy, a man named Nobbs, a pale, thin associate of his named Tanner, and Lord Voldemort waited for her.

888

_A few days after Hermione's abduction…_

McGonagall knocked gingerly on the Head Girl's door. "Miss Granger?" she called. She knocked again. "Miss Granger, are you all right?"

Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Harry, and Ron shared bewildered looks.

"She hasn't responded since we started knocking yesterday. We thought she was studying for the N.E.W.T.s," Harry offered.

"Very odd," McGonagall assessed. "What do you think, Albus?"

Dumbledore replied quietly, "I think we should open the door."

"It's blocked against _Alohomora_," Ron said.

"_Abrio Des_," Dumbledore chanted. The door jumped open.

"Oh," Ron said.

Dumbledore swept in, eyes cold and suspicious. He and McGonagall searched the immediate room, Hermione's bedroom. They found the sheets and quilt pulled back and the indention still noticeable on the fabric and pillow. McGonagall gasped.

But Dumbledore held up a silencing hand. He took the small vial of half-drunk Nightmare Potion between two fingers. His eyes narrowed.

"Maybe…" he mused. "Maybe… this isn't foul play. This is a Nightmare Potion. Minerva, check her laboratory."

McGonagall nodded, confused. When she came back, she was even more confused. "There's a page with her handwriting describing the brewing process, and there are more vials in the cupboard. But all her books are missing."

Dumbledore's blue eyes grew icier. "Curious." He observed the curves of the fabric where Hermione had been. Meanwhile, he explained to the others, "A Nightmare Potion is very illegal. It is possible—just possible—she used inappropriate proportions and disappeared. She could have destroyed her books if they were incriminating. But then she would have destroyed the rest of the potion as well…." He shook his head. "Then there is the issue of her character. Harry, has she been preoccupied or distant or even just different lately?"

Harry's brow drew in. "Are you thinking Hermione's been doing Dark Arts? Sure, she's been different, distant, but since we've left her out of the Order, we have less we can talk about. But the Dark Arts isn't like Hermione."

"On the contrary," Dumbledore said, "she's been practicing them for the last two school years."

"What?!" Ron said, his voice cracking with incredulity.

"Impossible," Harry agreed.

"I am not saying that I believe she has experimented to teach herself the Dark Arts in order to use them. It is likely that she did it for us, her own work for the Order. But the Dark Arts are notoriously seductive, especially to someone as hungry for knowledge as she. It has happened before, Harry."

"If you knew she was practicing the Dark Arts, why didn't you stop her or invite her into the Order or something?" Ron asked indignantly.

"Yeah, she just wanted to help," Harry said.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "Hermione is a genius, Harry. If I tried to keep you from the Order, how long would it take before you found something else to do? I did not interfere because she would have still found a way, and I hoped she would realize her folly. But the folly," he indicated the indented mattress, "appears to have led to something more sinister. There are three most likely possibilities: One, her potion backfired and she is a victim of her own curiosity. Two, she has voluntarily left these premises, deliberately not telling anyone—so she could be dead in the Forbidden Forest or setting up quarters there or Chrestomanci knows what. Or three, she could have been taken by an unscrupulous character who either knows of her interaction with you, Harry, or her Dark activities."

"Hey," said Ron, peering into the tank, "not that I care or anything, but where is Belthazar?"

Dumbledore looked into the tank himself, his gaze piercing into the shadows but unreadable. "There," he muttered, "is another argument that she is still alive. It's curious… I'll have to speak with Severus and have him give his professional opinion on the purity of the Nightmare Potion and… other things. It is incredibly risky to experiment on yourself. It leads too easily to catastrophe."


	8. Chapter 7

**Title:** Abyss (07)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter is edited.

**Chapter 7**

"Good afternoon, Hermione," Voldemort said softly. "I see you fared well last night."

The memory his calm, ironic voice inspired made the blood rush to her face and her stomach churn—the clammy hands, the tongue licking his lips and the slightly glazed expression, his panting breath… the merest thought of Wormtail's hands on her, his body intimately touching her… if she were not naked beneath her blanket, she might have expressed her whole-hearted desire to kill the Dark Lord with her bare hands. She stood cold and silent as a marble sculpture instead, waiting for Voldemort to make the first move.

"How did it feel for a traitor to sleep with a traitor?" Lucius asked, savoring the insult to the Mudblood friend of Potter's.

"I wouldn't know," Hermione said.

Voldemort stood and lazily stretched out an arm. "_Imperius_," he almost crooned.

As all worries swept from her mind, her hold loosened on the blanket, and it fell to the floor. She walked forward as if in a trance.

"How lovely to have the snake charm the mistress," Voldemort hissed in quiet glee. "Will you have her, Lucius?" He Banished the blanket then let her free of the spell. In an instinctual act of modesty, she tried to cover bare skin, but restrained herself, knowing they would see her no matter what her attempt.

"She is fine enough, but I won't know until…" Lucius answered. She was emaciated, but she still curved where it mattered.

"Then, by all means, try the girl. I've no more use for her," Voldemort said.

"Don't you?" Hermione asked.

Voldemort turned around in a surprisingly graceful maneuver. His head swayed on his neck to face her. "Why? What do you think _I_ would do with you? The fact you are here rather than at Hogwarts is all that concerns me."

"I don't know what you'd do with me," Hermione said. "I just thought…"

"You just thought I'd have a special place in my heart for you?" Voldemort asked mockingly.

"Were they," she said, referring to Crabbe, Goyle, and Wormtail, "not enough for me?"

"Extravagance is never wasted in the treatment of an adversary," Tanner said, like he was quoting.

"You know there is a way you could make it all end, Hermione." Once again, Voldemort pulled her wand from his sleeve and slid it into her hand. Unlike most people, Voldemort seemed to absorb heat rather than radiate it, and she shivered, her flesh rippling into gooseflesh. He smelled of caverns.

"Yes, I know a way to make it end," Hermione began, her pitch steadily increasing. "I kill myself. That is the _only_ way this can end. Do you _think_ I'd be so _stupid_ as to believe you'd stop torturing me _just_ because I counter a spell?"

"Unfortunately, that is not an option," Voldemort said. "You're more valuable to me alive. But if you really want to, go ahead. You have your wand." He whispered in her ear, "Kill yourself."

Hermione shivered at his cold breath, but did not move.

"Do you have the courage, Hermione, little Gryffindor, to kill yourself to spoil my small designs for you? Or are you just too idealistic? Do you still have hope?"

The door behind her opened, and Wormtail, fully dressed, walked out of the room. The sight of Hermione's naked body in the bright light made him freeze. His eyes darkened and his cheeks reddened.

"How was she?" Lucius asked from his armchair. He was watching Hermione to catch her reaction.

"Well," Wormtail stammered, "I, ah, haven't much, er, basis for comparison. She was… erm…" He swore as his body began to respond more strongly to her nakedness, and his gaze drifted pointedly to her breasts and the apex between her thighs. His fingers began fidgeting with each other and he licked his lips unconsciously.

"I'll let you have her again if you'd like," Lucius said. He showed his amusement as horror flooded Hermione's eyes. "I've waited five years, what's another fifteen minutes."

Hermione tried to lift her wand against Malfoy, but Voldemort tightened his grip.

"Really," Wormtail said, his eyes sparking with sexual desire. "Really. If Potter could see me now." He laid a hand on the curve of her buttock.

"Which one?" Hermione snapped. "You've betrayed them both."

"Whenever I'd talk about liking any girl to James or Sirius, they would laugh and tease me and embarrass me, as though the idea of me ever having a girl was ludicrous, just because they were good-looking and I wasn't. Now they're dead. And you're here."

"Last time I checked, they got their girls honestly."

"And where are they now?" Wormtail murmured in her ear.

She was still weak, but she let go of the wand Voldemort held and slapped Wormtail across the face, curling her fingers so that her nails formed furrows in his skin. One scratch bled, and only a little. But the fact that she had struck him froze him where he stood.

"Filthy, cowardly rat! You were a Gryffindor! You were supposed to be brave, determined, fierce, and loyal, and all those other painfully idealistic adjectives. How did you become this? What is the glory in _this_?" She gestured to her body. "What have you done to earn this? Nothing. You did not court me, you did not persuade me, you didn't even break me… _You did nothing_. You have no glory! You're not a quarter of the men they were."

"You little bitch," Wormtail began.

"Don't you dare! You were cringing at my feet in the Shrieking Shack. Cringing! Pleading that I save you." Hermione drew back her hand again.

Voldemort winced as Wormtail pushed her against a wall, silver hand strong as it pulled her limbs away. She struggled with all of her might, kicking, trying to knee him in the groin. She did not know whether the shame of the traitor's possession of her or the open display was more mortifying. She could not stop screaming in her head and crying, and she had to bite her tongue not to beg to him.

He spent himself before he could make her yield to him, but the feel of his seed dripping down her stomach was enough. Wormtail pressed his sweating forehead against her shoulder, overwhelmed.

Lucius laughed. "You've one taste of one inexperienced Mudblood. Taste one of my more willing sluts in the Harem."

Hermione closed her eyes, fighting the urge to vomit what little food she had from her stomach. Quietly, she began to sob. From Head Girl to sex slave. And she began the Dark Arts to counter the Dark only to find herself catering to any Dark wizard's whim.

Wormtail was moved aside, and a thin wooden object slid back into her grasp, her wrists still tied behind her. Without looking back, she merely shut her eyes tighter and yielded in a sigh. "_Sanspareo_."

A rush of wind whipped through Voldemort's mind and unlocked the shackles connecting him to her well-being. All the frustration and repressed will culminated into a pure loathing of what had once been her control over him. The wand was yanked from her hand and another wand point bent the tender flesh of her neck.

"_Crucio_," Voldemort muttered. There was never a more beautiful sound at any point in history than the new screams unleashed from her mouth, far more high-pitched, louder, and more anguished than any he had heard from her before.

Finally, as the pain became too intense for screaming, he lifted the spell, and Hermione curled up like a fetus, eyes tight shut, and limbs shaking like switches. He had never seen her look lovelier. He dragged her to her feet and flung her at Lucius. He caught her easily and held her close to the length of his body. Her mouth was pressed to Lucius' breast by a firm hand. His other hand dug painfully into her hip.

"Take her and break her, Lucius. Break her completely. When she has finished her training with you, you will bring her to me. Understand? I want to see what she will become—I want to look into her empty eyes."

"When I am through," Lucius acquiesced, burying his nose in her hair, "you can have her."

"Perfect," Voldemort said. And without a second glance, he walked away with Hermione's wand that had negated what small bit of power she had lorded over him. But Hermione did not care anymore, even as Lucius led her from that room to his own quarters, and Wormtail said to her as she left, "You're no better than me."

888

"This way, Headmaster," Snape muttered. Professor Dumbledore, Lupin, and Harry followed Snape cautiously. Never had any of Lucius' enemies walked so successfully through the front door. Thank Merlin for Dumbledore's Extension on the Invisibility Cloak. The Malfoy house elf recognized Snape by sight and thought nothing of his strolling in unannounced. It had happened many times before.

Once they were in the dungeons, they threw the Cloak off and began searching through the dungeons. There were five full floors with two dozen cells down the sides of each aisle.

"I believe she is on the second floor. At least, I heard noises, a cough that seemed female," Snape whispered.

Harry marveled at Snape's focus. He had not snapped at Harry once during the entire evening. If anything, Snape was ignoring him.

They had finally realized it had not been Hermione's Dark activities that had made her disappear. Belthazar had never turned up, they noticed Hermione's books and clothes were gone, and added two and two together. Even then, it had merely been speculation. Until Snape had finished the tests and confirmed that the Nightmare Potion had not been polluted, then heard through Death Eaters that Hermione Granger, one of Harry Potter's best friends, had been kidnapped, they were not completely sure. When they finally heard of her being taken forcefully rather than willingly, there were a few sighs of relief that immediately stifled themselves as they were informed of the nature of Malfoy dungeons.

Harry did not understand why he was invited on the rescue mission. He had tripped twice on the way and nearly caused Lupin to fall from the cover of the Cloak. Because of his inexperience in successful espionage, he was only a hindrance. He wanted to save Hermione, of course, but at stealth, in the middle of Malfoy Manor, he was more likely to attract the enemy rather than avoid him.

A few rats ran along the edge of the wall and into some of the cells.

"I don't like this," Lupin whispered, watching the progress of the rats suspiciously. "It's far too easy. And Peter could be any of those rats."

"I'm leading three Gryffindors to save another Gryffindor from languishing in her cell," Snape said. "How do you think I feel?"

In spite of himself, Harry gave a wry grin. "Think of it as an opportunity to insult more Gryffindors."

"I'd rather not have the Gryffindors and not have to think of witty insults for them," Snape replied. "Welcome to the second floor. Farthest dungeon. It's one of the coldest."

"You've _memorized_ the dungeons?" Harry asked.

"It's obviously useful. Miss Granger?" he called in a low voice, giving the words time to reach her in echoes. A high whimper answered him.

"Hermione?" Lupin called.

A low sob.

Snape crooked his finger and they walked down the aisle.

"She's not responding with words. That may mean it's not her. Be cautious," Snape muttered.

Snape peered around the corner into Hermione's cell.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione was curled in the corner with the thin blanket around her, eyes closed tight.

"_Abrio Des_," Snape murmured, and the cell bars slid to the side. "Miss Granger?"

"Hermione?" Harry asked, stepping forward. "Are you—argh!"

His scar burned wildly like it had been branded.

"Voldemort!" Harry shouted through the haze of pain. "It's a trap!"

Lupin snatched Harry from the cell opening and put him behind him. All four put their wands at the ready.

At their initial surprise, the Glamour wavered then shed from the real tableau. Wormtail replaced Hermione on the floor, and Voldemort stood next to him, grinning. There was a glint of quiet delight in his eyes.

"Hermione is not here," he said, idly toying with his wand. "Were you perhaps _misinformed_, Severus?"

Snape lowered his wand. He knew Voldemort was aware of his treachery, and taking a definite stand for either side would topple his precarious position balanced between Voldemort and Dumbledore. It all depended on how long Voldemort would accept his obvious pretense.

"My lord." Snape inclined his head. "I merely came to spit at the child when these leeches attached on."

"You used to be much quicker, Severus," Voldemort mocked. "I would have half-believed you five years ago."

"Why don't you tell me what to say? I've three of your greatest enemies here that I've 'secreted' to the Manor to rescue Hermione. What do you suggest?"

"Well," Voldemort mused, "you could say you intentionally led them here to walk into the trap I've set for their destruction."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "It works. Have at it, then." He stepped aside and let Dumbledore and Voldemort take center stage.

"You are fortunate your wit amuses me, Severus," Voldemort said. "I would have killed you long ago otherwise."

"For what?" Snape replied smoothly.

Voldemort turned his attention to Dumbledore.

"I'm sorry to say that your dear little Hermione has joined me, as I had suspected she would from the day I met her in the Forbidden Forest last year. She was collecting liliaths." Lupin started in surprise. "Oh yes, Miss Granger has become quite adept at the Dark Arts over the last two years."

"I don't believe you," said Dumbledore.

"Why ever not?" Voldemort asked, laughing. "She collected all her clothes and books for the sole purpose of asking to become one of my followers. I can tell at a glance it isn't me she wants to follow. She deludes herself that one day she will be more powerful than I. But I will tolerate her until then."

"Where is she, Tom?" Dumbledore asked. His face was like carved stone. Only his long beard moved in the cold drafts.

"Most likely moaning under the body of one of my Death Eaters," Voldemort answered, "trying to make them all love her. She has researched the most potent sex spells. She'll be the pet in no time. I find her childish antics entertaining among the adults."

"Hermione—Hermione would never do anything like _that_!" Harry yelled from behind Lupin. "She—she thinks it's degrading. She wouldn't…"

"She's slept with me, Harry Potter," Wormtail chimed in, enjoying the privilege of being able to say the words.

"Despicable," Lupin spat. "I can see in your eyes that you've taken her, but Hermione, no matter what you say to me, would never yield herself voluntarily to a sniveling traitor like you, Wormtail. I saw her, you forget, in the Shrieking Shack when you begged for her mercy. She found you revolting then, and she's had four years to hate you even more. And to think I once defended you from James and Sirius when they were right all along."

Wormtail was momentarily stricken, but his umbrage settled back into a self-satisfied demeanor.

"Believe what you will, Hermione _has_ joined us of her own free will," Voldemort said.

"And say what you will, we will not believe you," Dumbledore replied.

A flicker caught his eye. A rat in the corner. He could see the tail _through_ Wormtail.

"You're not here either," Dumbledore said, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm insulted, my lord," Snape said dryly, "that we are not worthy of your full presence."

"How obtuse do you think I am? Just Wormtail and I in an enclosed cell with few conceivable exits? A number of my Death Eaters are waiting for my signal even now. And I never bluff. I'll tell Hermione hello for you, Potter. We'll share a laugh."

Wormtail's and Voldemort's image disappeared.

Footsteps echoed through the dungeons, heading their way.

"Headmaster," Snape muttered, "I know a way out of the dungeons, but… it may not still be here and we would need to go toward the Death Eaters."

"Harry," Dumbledore said, "can you fit through the window? The second you're out of the Manor, I can Disapparate you."

Harry guessed the width of the window then ran into the cell and climbed into the niche. He looked back at Dumbledore, who joined him at the window.

"I'll Disapparate you to the edge of Hogwarts grounds. You'll be safe within the boundaries there," Dumbledore instructed.

Harry nodded in compliance. Even now, his eyes betrayed his hurt.

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "we'll get Hermione back. If she had really joined him, he would have shown her in the illusion to truly taunt us. And Wormtail was too proud of himself for Hermione to have gone to his bed of her own free will."

"That means she's still been kidnapped, tortured, and…" Harry replied savagely.

"We'll get her back," Dumbledore repeated.

The footsteps and shouts were closer.

"Go now, Harry, jump." Dumbledore stared into Harry's eyes. "Trust me."

Harry searched the bright blue eyes. Then he turned around and leapt from the window.

888

Hermione lay curled up in an armchair with her knees against her chest. She started her training with Lucius in nothing, but after a few weeks she was permitted an immodest nightgown that halted its fabric halfway up her thighs and halfway down her breasts. It felt better than being completely exposed.

Lucius liked her to rest in the afternoons for their nocturnal lessons. They took place in Lucius' bedroom despite Narcissa's occupation. Hermione learned quite early that the condescending, well-bred Mrs. Malfoy did not enjoy the little Mudblood's presence in the least. Narcissa endured one night of the bed shaking on Lucius' side before she moved into another room.

He would not let her rest in his bed. He wanted her in the chair—it pleased him to watch her unfurl. He was standing above her now, waiting for her to wake up. She was enjoying the few minutes she had total control over him. Soon he would grow impatient and shake her 'awake,' but until then he would just content himself looking at her.

In Lucius Malfoy's quarters, Hermione had a number of freedoms. House-elves brought her food; she could take baths in Lucius' tub because he enjoyed smelling his soap and his shampoo on her skin and hair; she used Narcissa's vanity to style her hair every afternoon. She was allowed one pair of scissors to cut her hair. Occasionally, if Lucius was feeling generous and she was willing to perform, he would bring her books—unproductive fiction, but it was something to occupy her mind during the long afternoons. The first two weeks, Hermione's head had been saturated with thoughts that longed for an outlet, and these books provided the necessary release.

His fingers curled around her shoulder and shook her. Hermione opened her eyes to him so easily he knew she had been awake for quite some time. Without speaking, he took her hand and pulled her from the chair. The sight of her legs lengthening and the skin of her breasts glowing to his eager eyes always jolted him. Lucius had never spent this long on a subject before, but he still enjoyed her body, and she proved to be skilled and well-trainable at every task he set before her. She had learned early not to oppose him. The marks he had left on her back and shoulders still ached from the first three weeks of resisting.

Lucius wore only his dressing gown, and his white-blond hair spilled over his shoulders. Gently, he brought Hermione against him.

"Wormtail has been asking for you," Lucius murmured, brushing his hand over her hip. "I think you made quite an impression on him."

"Aren't there other girls for him in your Harem?" Hermione muttered sullenly.

"He finds particular satisfaction in you," Lucius said as his touch extended to her buttock and the back of her thighs. "The Dark Lord never mentions you."

"I don't want him to," Hermione lied. She wanted to know when she would be able to leave Lucius. To her understanding, Voldemort was not interested at all in women.

"You want to leave me for him," Lucius said, stroking her hair and leading her to the bed. "You think because he doesn't have sex he will be safer than I. Don't think you can hide your disgust of me from your eyes. I've seen the eyes of too many sex slaves to misinterpret the gleam in your eye when I do this."

He pushed her onto the bed. She momentarily lost her balance but sat up as quickly as she could. If she remained against the dark blue comforter with her body sprawled on her back long enough, Lucius would want to take her fully. When she stayed upright, he would know she was ready for his own personal preference.

Lucius folded back the covers and removed his robe. Propped against the pillows he waited for her. When she did not come, he whispered, "I've a new book for you today."

Hermione's eyes lit up, and at her delight, Lucius beckoned to her. Like always, her face fell as she crawled over him. Lucius guided her hand to him and reclined back, letting her ply her new trade. When Hermione finally lifted her head, Lucius' eyes were closed and he was controlling his breathing.

"You know what you're doing," he said heavily, "you're ready, but you still have a stubborn streak."

"Lucius?" Hermione asked. "I don't understand." He had, the first night, ordered her to call him Lucius—the Dark Lord was her master, and Lucius bowed in deference to Voldemort's supremacy.

"Yes, you do." Lucius grinned and pulled her up so she straddled his lap. "You've yielded to me because you can tolerate my desire. The question is if you can tolerate _anyone's_ desire."

He gently pressed his lips against hers, quickly progressing the kiss until she was gasping for the little breath he afforded her. He wrenched himself away to focus on removing the poor excuse of clothing from her.

As he caressed her breasts, he continued, eyes growing a deep gray the more insistent his hands were. "If I gave you to my lord, you would no doubt lapse back into your former ways. If you can prove to me that you can obey orders in bed from another man, _maybe_ I'll deem you ready."

His mouth closed over the tip of her breast and he shifted until she was underneath him. He ran a hand up her thigh and stroked her. Almost immediately, Hermione began the rocking motion he expected.

"For instance," he murmured against her shoulder between kisses, "I know you feel very little when I treat you this way, yet you can go through the motions very well."

Once again his mouth slanted over hers, and it was not until he had sated himself that he concluded his speech.

"Only Wormtail would not be able to tell the difference," Lucius said thoughtfully, "between your pretense and the genuine article."

Hermione's eyes, which had been closed with her head pillowed against Lucius' chest as he wanted her to, flew open.

"That distresses you, Hermione," Lucius taunted. "Yes, you would be perfect for him to indulge in his fantasies. That will be your last examination, little Head Girl. Don't fail."

Hermione found it almost a relief that Lucius was so predictable to the point of being mechanical. She was even rather surprised. Who would have thought a Death Eater would be so uncreative? What he lacked in creativity he made up for in stamina. Without fail, Hermione would ache in the morning. The way he touched her, she could accept him inside her if she did not move against him too much, but it still had a degree of discomfort because she felt nothing but vague, disconnected disgust. Hermione knew that the only reason she had been able to make it through the days was this emotional alienation. She had thought of her past a grand total of four times, and each time, she burst into inconsolable tears that would not abate until Lucius' footsteps began down the hall. But even though she shut out as much as she could she would occasionally catch a glimpse in her mind of jade green eyes or carrot red hair.

888

Wormtail was on the floor, breathing heavily against Hermione's shoulder. It took him several minutes before he slid from Hermione. Lucius Malfoy, from a chair on the other side of the room, clapped.

"I've never seen a more passionate performance, Hermione," he sneered. "You're a credit to Gryffindor."

Hermione sat up on the floor, her eyes blazing.

"Ah, so I didn't beat all the spirit from you," Lucius said, finding her anger arousing. He had found a replacement for her, though he would not spend as much time with the Muggle as he had with the Mudblood. Then again, the Muggle was never going to see the Dark Lord like Hermione was.

"Should I take her to our lord?" Wormtail inquired, buttoning his trousers.

"I'll give her to him tonight after the feast," Lucius answered. Wormtail watched hungrily as Hermione arranged her hair. With her arms raised, he received the most tantalizing view of her breasts.

"Wormtail, you are excused from my quarters," Lucius murmured. Hermione lowered her arms in surprise; then, as she realized why he had issued such an abrupt dismissal, she turned her back on him, which Lucius found just as appealing.

Wormtail eyed them jealously, but he left as ordered—quarters were exclusive to invitations. But he could not resist one last look as Lucius approached Hermione from behind.


	9. Chapter 8

**Title:** Abyss (08)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Try it. It's not as squicky as it seems. Very dark. A lot of Death Eater action.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 8**

Voldemort sat, as usual, at the head of the table. No one sat on the other end, but Lucius sat on one side and Avery on the left. Voldemort hated feasts—he felt it put him too much on an equal level with his Death Eaters as well as showed his followers just how little he ate. He seemed almost prissy when he picked at the food, less so when he only ate meat. He enjoyed fruit when it was particular, but the quality of food from the earth was so poor, and the meat was easy to make rare.

Voldemort had to admit that this particular Feast intrigued him for the sole reason of seeing Hermione once more. After the initial freedom of controlling his own mind, he had set Hermione aside almost completely. It was Lucius' reminder that had brought her back to the foreground. Now he was anxious to be reunited with the self-righteous little slut that had called herself his mistress. In just a short time, he would have her all to himself.

"Have you heard anything from the office, Baddock?" MacNair asked, nodding at Nott, Voldemort's primary espionage agent, in silent greeting,

"They still have no idea where we are," Baddock answered, ripping the meat off the bone.

"And what of Severus?" Lucius interrupted, knowing his master's true concern. Voldemort had severed all connections with his original spy and interrogator. After the rescue mission and their easy escape, Voldemort cut the cords as slowly as possible to keep undetected. He was sure his letter had been quite a shock to Snape, not least because it was simply a letter. No, the Dark Lord had better ideas for Snape's demise. His purposelessness would torture him enough for a while. A Slytherin never accepts lack of purpose.

"He has no idea, according to my son," Baddock answered. "But why couldn't you ask yours?"

"He is occupied with other matters," Lucius said curtly.

"Ah, bothering the Potter boy like a school boy," Baddock mused.

"Whatever works."

In another conversation, MacNair and Bellatrix were discussing a young boy they had caught several weeks ago.

"Threw an Elephant Hex at him," Bellatrix recounted to Rodolphus. "He looked unspeakable. Then I covered the room with mirrors while I ripped out his toenails. I think he was crying for his mother, but the trunk made it difficult to distinguish his words."

"How'd you find him, Walden?" Fredrick asked. "I thought you favored women."

"I do," MacNair replied, grinning. "But I eat little boys' legs for lunch. A little better."

Wormtail rearranged the food on his plate. Unusual. Wormtail loved to eat. Voldemort cast _Legilimens_ and saw his mouth on a writhing abdomen on Lucius' rugs. Recent. Hermione. Voldemort did not even fight a smile. The little rat with smitten with Harry Potter's best friend, even after all this time of abstinence. He could use that.

Frieda, the young woman who Voldemort had used against Dumbledore when describing Hermione's 'betrayal,' now sat in the lap of Lysander. Romancing at the feasting table was common. After all, a feast is not just in the food, and enough of them had sampled Frieda to know she was a meal of her own.

The one man that was not interested in the Feast at all was Franco Carmen, an old Spanish wolf that had been born long before Voldemort had even been conceived. Carmen sat in a corner on his legal flying carpet, playing an ordinary Muggle chess game with himself. Carmen was not technically a Death Eater, but he had no love for Dumbledore, and he preferred Voldemort's company. In the war against Grindelwald, Carmen had fought on Dumbledore's side. Along the way, he had irreplaceable losses—an eye, both legs, a few, fingers, his wife and six children. This was not what pitted him against Dumbledore—Dumbledore's crime was much subtler than that. Carmen had received only verbal recognition from Dumbledore—that did not bother him so much either. Dumbledore, who had discovered three new used for dragon blood, could not cure his psychologically-based impotence. This was Dumbledore's ultimate crime. The pettiness was revolting to Voldemort, but the man's loyalty was unwavering—Voldemort had given him the cure during his early years as his Dark powers were just beginning to develop. Carmen was now one hundred fourteen years old and had sampled Frieda twice but had repaid Voldemort a thousand times over.

"You had forgotten her, hadn't you?" Carmen said dryly as Voldemort approached him.

"If I were as transparent as you make me seem, I would have never risen to this point. Don't look so smug." Voldemort summoned a chair and settled back, watching Carmen lose to himself. It would only take three moves if he really looked carefully, but Voldemort thought maybe Carmen wanted to lose with grace and win with dignity. It would be a long game.

"Did you?" Carmen asked, moving a pawn.

"Yes," Voldemort replied.

"And now you're wondering what it will be like to see the broken spirit of the one that owned you, correct?"

"Incorrect," Voldemort sneered. "Because she will now belong to me, her former possession of me no longer means anything. Her possession was at my convenience, not hers."

"Mm-hm," Carmen hummed. He turned the board around to play on the opposite side.

"You don't believe me," Voldemort murmured, raising his eyebrow.

"I think you believe yourself."

Voldemort smirked. "You have been known to be wrong on occasion."

"Less so lately. I must be getting old." He made his move then turned the board again. "Don't look now, I think she's coming."

Lucius Malfoy had left the table and had disappeared through the door.

"I've heard she's intelligent. Very intelligent. Knowledgeable in the Dark Arts," Carmen mused.

"What are you thinking, you silly old fool?" Voldemort asked, amused.

"Nothing, nothing." He moved a bishop and turned the board. "What did you think I was thinking?"

"Don't play that game with me, Carmen," Voldemort said, still very much entertained. "Just tell me what mad prophecy is developing in your devious little mind."

Carmen's bright eye dulled slightly. "You don't really want to know my thoughts, my lord. You would not be pleased."

Voldemort's pupils dilated in irritation. "Romantic notions."

"It's in my blood, mate," Carmen replied. "In my blood."

"Cool your blood then," Voldemort said testily. "You know how I feel."

"None of us know that, my lord," Carmen murmured.

The door opened and Lucius pushed the girl in. She tripped on the edge of a rug and sprawled on the ground. Lucius had found her a thin blue satin dressing gown, doubtlessly from Narcissa's wardrobe. Hermione readjusted it and glared at Lucius. He grinned.

The Death Eaters had all turned around to stare at the Mudblood. Then they turned around to look at the Dark Lord.

"She's not broken," Voldemort announced coldly.

"She is," Lucius said. "She is obedient at worst."

"Her spirit, Lucius, I wanted it broken!" Voldemort closed his eyes in frustration. He cast a silent _Legilimens_, searching her immediate past. He could see Lucius' bed and Wormtail's pale skin, and he could sense Hermione's utter humiliation and shame and disgust and revulsion and a deep welling of hatred and violence.

"It is difficult to restrain thinking about some of the more harmful curses when you know them, isn't it, Hermione?" Voldemort stated. "Especially when someone you absolutely despise gets too close for comfort." He glanced at Wormtail, who was fidgeting with the folds of his robes. His eyes were slightly glazed.

Voldemort sat back on the chair opposite Carmen's carpet. Carmen drifted back into the shadows. Then, Voldemort held out his left boot with the sole facing Hermione.

"We'll see how broken she is out of bed, and I hope for your sake, Lucius, that she is. Hermione, come here."

Hermione began to stand.

"Crawl, Hermione. Don't look at me, look at the floor."

Hermione dropped back to the floor, mouth almost touching the rug.

Voldemort nodded in pleasure as she crawled across the room before all of the Death Eaters, proving how degraded she allowed herself to be. Voldemort tasted the air, tasted her disgrace and found it exquisite. He could not resist a smile as Hermione finally reached him.

"Lick my boot, Hermione. And take your time." Voldemort sat back and waited. He reveled in her prideful indecision. The angles of her shoulder blades trembled with tension. Her hands clenched the rug. But she settled back on her heels and reached for his boot. Her face was white and drawn, cold and formed as marble. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue from the heel to the toe. Then she looked up, her brown eyes alight with fury as she waited for his approval.

"Again."

Hermione obeyed, taking longer this time.

"Perfect," Voldemort murmured, "take her to my chambers and bind her." Two house elves sprang into action.

"My lord," Lucius said, stepping forward. "You intend to make use of her?"

Voldemort turned his red eyes, slitted in languor, to his faithful Death Eater. "Not in the way you mean."

"She's an interesting choice," Carmen muttered, prodding his bishop absentmindedly.

"You can't do that, Carmen. The king will be in check. Interesting is appropriate. But she chose me."

"Could have left her, forgotten her."

"I did."

"You wanted her back." Carmen set the game aside. "Why?"

"Lucius couldn't break her."

"You think you will? The intelligent ones are the most difficult. They always have their mind, their intellect, to spark the imagination. You take away the mind, and they don't care anymore."

Voldemort shook his head. "I plan to do this slowly, not with a wave of my wand. Lucius has made her obedient. I will rot her wit like a disease, rot her with that ever potent method of persuasion—her own indecision."

888

Hermione sat with her back against the foot of the bed. The edges of the dressing gown were pulled emphatically over her body; the habit of anxious modesty still lingered.

In the last twenty four hours she had never felt so utterly crushed with degradation.

She could not half believe how much Lucius' training had quelled her. She had given herself to Wormtail, catering to his every perverted request; she might as well have been his whore with the way his eyes glittered while Lucius watched, index finger tapping his lower lip and eyelids lowered.

Then to crawl like a rodent to lick the underside of Voldemort's boots as though she enjoyed it, a simpering bitch. She had so thoroughly lowered herself beneath even the house elves she had sought to save. She felt despicable.

_Harry would have fought back_, Hermione thought, self-loathing oozing through her brain, a malicious, devouring organism. Harry probably wouldn't have Death Eaters molest him, but whatever they would do, Harry would have fought back. He would have never licked Voldemort's boots. He would have never crawled like an animal. He would have never, never obeyed.

The door opened, and Voldemort, unescorted and unarmed, walked in, closing the door behind him.

"There are house elves guarding the door. Even if you escape from your chains, you have nowhere to go."

He unfastened his outer robes and hung them in the wardrobe.

"Do you know why I had Lucius take you?" Voldemort said, standing by the fire. The hearth blazed and Voldemort was cast into an impressive silhouette.

Hermione was silent.

"And Wormtail?" Voldemort continued.

"Wormtail," Hermione interrupted, "was only because I showed such loathing for him at the beginning. Wormtail was a bonus. Lucius… you gave me to him because you knew I feared what he would do to me, you knew that we had a past."

Voldemort raised his head, pleased. "And did you fear him?"

"You know very well I hated it," Hermione replied softly.

"I'll never require your services, though I'll understand if that comes as small consolation." He left the dramatics of the hearth and slid into the lamplight. He sat lotus-style several feet from Hermione, his long limbs even more evident folded in. Hermione took this opportunity to study him more closely.

Hermione could see how Harry might have seen Voldemort as purely skeletal, but upon more intimate, quiet perusal, Hermione could see the toned lines of thin muscle along the forearms. She was not sure if his muscles could expand much more. His pure white skin was dry and completely smooth, like powdered stone, and his face was not attractive at all but hypnotically interesting: eyes glittering like garnets against sharply cut lines, but a nearly lipless mouth and simply two slits for nostrils rather than a nose out of place with the very human features of his jaw, brow, and the smooth contours of his skull. The baldness made his head look surprisingly vulnerable with the proud arch of his neck. She hardly expected this man. For that was what he was when he sat down, alone with her. Just a man. It was disillusioning.

"I haven't needed a woman for thirty years," Voldemort added, at ease with his confession.

"Why are you keeping me then?" Hermione asked. Her voice was monotonous with despair.

Voldemort did not answer her question. "Potter tried to save you. At the Malfoy Manor."

"We aren't—?" Hermione began.

"No, don't be stupid. We are no longer at Malfoy Manor," Voldemort answered. "Too conspicuous."

Hermione nodded. She did not expect him to tell her their location.

"He, Dumbledore, Snape, and that werewolf attempted a brilliant rescue. Yes, I know Severus is their spy. But he was useful. He is no longer a Death Eater. That should make you happy; but that means there is no one sympathetic to your situation who can help you now. I let them escape, you know. I wanted to be there. When Dumbledore and I meet again, it will be on a battlefield, solely for the sheer numbers of the dead littering the earth. In the middle of the Malfoy dungeons, however tempting it was, was not the right place for the Order's destruction. It's not practical that I should wait for a less-assured moment, I know, but a part of me... You are beautiful leverage, Hermione. There have been two other rescue attempts, but they were only half-hearted. And do you want to know why?"

Her eyes were wide and empty.

"Because in their eyes—they have doubts, of course—you voluntarily joined me. Think of all the 'clues' you left. I think they believed me. I could see it in Dumbledore's eyes." Voldemort smiled. "Apparently you've slept your way to the top ranks of the Death Eaters and think about overthrowing me to take my place."

Her vision swam, but she refused to blink. It was becoming difficult to breathe with her pain trapped in her nose and throat.

"And I made you that whore they think you are now. Lucius was the instrument for me, but I did it. Hermione," he whispered, "you are mine to do with as I like, just as I was yours for that little while. Though I doubt you will find me as forgiving."

Hermione could not restrain herself any longer; she blinked. Two pregnant tears slid down her cheeks. The rest she managed to dissolve, but the offending trails betrayed her.

"And the best part is Dumbledore doesn't know what to do. If you came to me, he has to let you go and prepare himself for your added intelligence. However, if I was lying, and Severus' information of your abduction was correct, then I could be authorizing any number of horrendous abuses on you. That is why I keep you. I let him imagine what I am doing, I am permitted to actually do some of it, and you have to suffer all of it. And you can keep Wormtail entertained—a dual enticement, Dumbledore and Wormtail. I hope you don't mind that I allow him to take you every once in a while. I rather like the effect you have on him. So devoted to the cause when he has a reward in mind."

Hermione turned her head away.

"Look at me, Hermione," Voldemort commanded.

When Hermione would not obey, Voldemort grasped her chin and wrenched her face back forward so that he could see the new well of tears.

"Perfect." Now that he had breached her emotional barriers, Hermione would be easy. "Remove that robe at once. Lucius should never have given you clothes."

"But I thought—" Hermione said thickly.

"I don't want your body. Your body is nothing to me. But you are lower than a house-elf now, Hermione, and they are never given clothes. If I ever get tired of your skin, I'll request you cover yourself. I am the master here, not Lucius. You shall never call me by my name. You will address me as 'my lord.' And though the house-elves have pallets, you'll have nothing but the floor." He snatched the robe from her shoulders, leaving her naked before him. For some reason, her nudity now was more pronounced before the man who did not care than it had been with Lucius or even Wormtail.

"No blankets, no heat of a lover, nothing. Freeze. We'll see what to do with you in the morning." He magicked off all the lamps and dimmed the fire. He made his unhurried rituals before bed as though she was not even there. She hardly noticed when a snake slithered into the room, so preoccupied with the idea that the Dark Lord went through a toilette and slept at night. The scales brushed her foot, and she jumped.

"Nagini," Voldemort said. "She's here for her milking. It only happens at her leisure." Voldemort slid to the foot of the bed, and Hermione's focus shifted back to him. She never had dreamed that in some very small, but very subtle, ways, he was very human. Then again, since she had never imagined him in a bed, she supposed she should not be surprised at anything that he did on a bed.

Hermione observed, fascinated, as Voldemort guided Nagini's head to his mouth. Nagini lunged forward and sank her fangs into Voldemort's quite normal tongue. Several spasms shook the snake, then she released and slid off again, this time, through a different opening. If possible, Voldemort's skin had gone whiter.

"Forgive me if I fail to be a gracious host," he said with shallow breath. "The venom is not fatal for me, but it does stun me if nothing else."

"What's to stop me from killing you in here while you are weakened?" Hermione murmured, sitting on her knees. She was still a sickly pale, but some spirit had come back into her eyes.

"Who said I would be weakened? Just because I'll have trouble moving doesn't have anything to do with the power I possess. You've met your match, one you cannot escape or overcome, Hermione. I want to see your eyes when you finally realize that."

He laid back under the comforter of the bed, completely at ease with her vengeful presence. Hermione's eyes narrowed. How could he so easily dismiss her? With a huff, she put her back against the foot of the bed. All that debauchery, all that humiliation, only to have him completely indifferent to her.

_I should prefer this_, Hermione thought, wrapping her limps around herself. _Weeks of touching, tasting, invading… I should want to be ignored_. But after affording most of her mind to him, she was offended that he had not done the same.

The fire provided a modicum of warmth that was enough for the spartan comfort she had grown used to. But truth to tell, while she did not miss Lucius, his warmth during the nights had been wonderful. And Voldemort had his comforter. Cold-blooded creatures needed heat…

Hermione grabbed the end of the comforter and pulled, standing.

Voldemort did not even flinch.

"Put it back, Hermione," he muttered. "It's not worth losing your stomach."

Hermione froze, the comforter still in her hands. Slowly, Voldemort sat up in the bed and blinked as though it was difficult.

"Put it back."

When Hermione did not move, Voldemort stood and retrieved his wand from the night table. With almost disconnecting deliberation, he pointed the wand at her.

"If you are so eager to be warm, I'll summon Wormtail, who I assume will enjoy the task very well. If you are so eager to aggravate me, I suggest you restrain yourself because I have any number of curses that I have wanted to use on you since you cast _Pareo_." Voldemort's movements were becoming less muddled and more precise, which meant he was no longer reacting to Nagini's venom. Hermione was very aware of how steady his wand arm was. Yet she still held the comforter in her fists.

"_Imperio_," Voldemort said clearly. The utter apathy that came upon her was not as slow as the pseudo-Moody's had been, but smothered all resistance like a feather pillow. And the slight alteration in the way he pronounced the vowels made Hermione completely aware of everything she was doing.

"Maybe," Voldemort said, "I _should_ employ Wormtail as your punishment. He seems to quell you better than anything Lucius and I seem to, Hermione." He ran the wand against the curve under her jaw. "I saw your eyes whenever Wormtail was mentioned or when he looked at you." He let the tip of the wand drift to Hermione's heart. "Perhaps when you are disobedient and belligerent, I'll take you to his quarters for a full night, not just a passing moment. He'd make you his mistress if I let him. Yes, I think that is an adequate chastisement: one night with Wormtail. If you understand me perfectly, nod."

Hermione nodded.

"You are not Hermione Granger, you are just Hermione—a doll, or a marionette, if you will. Cover me with the sheets and comforter."

Voldemort settled back into the bed. It was much too big for him, three times the size of Hermione's four-poster at Hogwarts, and he merely lay near the edge. Hermione would have found this endearing in a more objective situation. But she did as Imperius bade her to do.

When he was covered, he released her from the Unforgivable.

"Go to sleep, Hermione," Voldemort said, closing his eyes.

"You sleep at night," Hermione muttered, the idea still amusing, preferable to the idea of Wormtail as her punishment for failing to obey him.

"I breathe," Voldemort answered. "Anything that breathes sleeps. Sometimes I sleep at night, other times in the morning, the afternoon, or the evening, whenever it is convenient. Good night." Then he closed his mouth and did not respond to her again; a weight of absolute helplessness draped over her. She squealed as the shackles around her feet retracted violently, tripping her to the floor and dragging her to the end of the bed. A low chuckle came from under the covers. Hermione pulled half-heartedly at the fetters, but she knew that without magic, nothing would open them.

"Harry," she whispered, "please come rescue me." And gods help her, she wanted to be warm.

888

The Gryffindor Tower had become quieter as of late. Even Parvati and Lavender had been shocked to silence when Professor McGonagall announced that Hermione had been kidnapped by the Dark Lord, in the guise of her familiar. That Voldemort had infiltrated the school frightened any number of parents, who requested that either Dumbledore up security or they would withdraw their children. Dumbledore employed Hagrid's remaining Blast-Ended Skrewt at the front gate, and thestrals roamed the grounds freely. Chimeras waited at the Hogwarts borders, and every night, a wind dragon patrolled the air.

Animosity toward Slytherins had only increased, and McGonagall as well as Snape was taking points off Gryffindor almost compulsively.

Harry and Ron completely stopped bothering the Slytherins. They threw themselves into Quidditch and Defense. Ginny was the only girl who was not indignant at their persistence in ignoring Hermione's absence. Sometimes they and Ginny used the Room of Requirement to escape the ones who did not understand. Ginny was particularly withdrawn—as the one person who had actually spent the most intimate time with Lord Voldemort, she was the most pessimistic of the three.

"Harry," she said once, looking out a rain-split window. "Lord Voldemort could persuade a cat he was a lion and an eagle he was a sparrow. If Hermione wasn't on his side before, I would not be surprised if she is now. I don't think it's likely, but I wouldn't be surprised."

Ron shot her a glare but said nothing.

Harry was battling self-pity, and he seemed to be losing. "You know," he said heavily, "if she wasn't my friend, this would never have happened."

"She got mixed up, Harry. And if this is connected with you, it's still not your fault. It started when you were one year old. You didn't have a whole lot of choice, mate," Ron reassured him. "And Hermione's smart, we all know that."

"In some situations," Harry said, "being smart isn't enough."

"She'll make it, Harry. She'll make it."

"They don't even know where to look!" Harry snapped. "If I hadn't insisted on rescuing Hermione then, threatening to do it on my own, Voldemort wouldn't know how much Snape was betraying him. Then Snape could look for clues to where she is. But since I screwed up, we went, and now Snape can't even be a spy anymore."

"Well," Ron said weakly, "at least Snape _can't _do anything now."

"I'm not mad at him anymore, Ron."

"Oh." Ron paused for a moment. "I'm not as mad as I used to be, but I'm still mad."

There was a long silence as their attention shifted back to Hermione.

"I miss her," Harry murmured into his knee.

"So do I, mate," Ron said.

Another long silence.

"Have you ever read the Restricted reports? About Death Eater attacks? And what they leave behind?" Harry said suddenly. "Hermione had checked them out about twelve times. Have you read them?"

"No," Ron answered.

"It's awful. And that's what's happening to her now. And Dumbledore hasn't even told her parents yet. It's almost Christmas Break." Harry pounded the wall behind him with his fist.

"If Hermione were here," Ginny said, "she'd know where to find herself."

Ron snorted. "When was the last time anyone in this school thought like Hermione."

Ginny retorted waspishly. "Fifty four years ago."

And that shut them all up.

-----

**Author notes:** Carmen was someone who just jumped out of my pen, but I like him--he's fun to work with.

Also, I like the last lines. It's the basis behind S.S. Light and Darkness (HG/TR-LV)


	10. Chapter 9

**Title:** Abyss (09)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter is a bit of light-heartedness in the midst of chaos and darkness. I hope you enjoy it. **Extended:** This chapter is edited.

**Chapter 9**

Voldemort sent a spell that unraveled Hermione's intestines to wake her up. Hermione bit back a scream as she curled into a ball against the wrenching in her abdomen in places where it never should have hurt. Her teeth drew blood on her bottom lip and the side of her tongue. He lifted the spell only as she began to retch.

With another wave of his wand, the shackles released her ankles. With surprisingly strong hands, he lifted her to her feet.

Hermione coughed as her intestines rearranged themselves. "You know, it would probably save a lot of time and energy if you just kicked me."

"Where's the pleasure in that?" Voldemort asked just as levelly.

"Well, there's the physical contact, the knowledge that you, rather than magic, is the cause of my pain. Then recovery time is cut in half so that I can glare at you sooner and you can start the process over again."

Voldemort almost smiled. "Inflicting pain on you will rarely be an act of emotion or reason, so logic is unnecessary, as is practicality. I'll keep your suggestion in mind when I feel a strong urge to beat someone."

"Good. I'll tell you who needs it most."

"The one passing judgment so swiftly is often in dire need of judgment herself," Voldemort replied.

"This verbal sparring is amusing," Hermione said coldly, "but do you have a reason for waking me up, or is it just some other way to…?"

"Now you are being too bold," Voldemort said, narrowing his eyes until they were thin streaks of red against his ivory skin.

In fearful deference, Hermione bent to her knees and pressed her mouth against his left boot. For the past week, he had done nothing but wake her up in the morning and occasionally go to sleep at night. She had nothing to do but sit and wait for Voldemort's interest in her to wax.

"Good," he purred, guiding her back to her feet. "I intend to take you somewhere. Wear your robe. I don't want people to mistake you for… something else…" He held out the robe. Hermione took it with a furrow in her brow.

Voldemort grabbed her elbow and led her out the room.

"How do you live without windows?" Hermione asked as they went down the corridor lit with dim bubbles of light as well as torches. The walls were a languid rose and the ground was carpeted in deep beige. Hermione wondered who did the decorating.

They did not pass anyone, but Hermione knew better than to ask where anyone was. According to Voldemort, the building was immense, and it was often empty when Death Eater activities were occurring in Britain. Voldemort's intentional slip first informed Hermione that they were no longer in the United Kingdom.

"Just because you haven't been led by windows does not mean that there aren't windows," Voldemort said. The walls and dim lighting were oppressive and thick, and Hermione almost felt like cringing closer to Voldemort; the walls seemed to be closing in.

But Voldemort reached a door and opened it so that she could breathe a little more. What she saw, though, caught her breath.

Along a room as wide and long as a cathedral draped hundreds and hundreds of women lounging naked upon chaises, poufs, sofas, feather and water beds… Well, mostly women, and mostly naked. Some of the females were clothed in such a way that their clothing was more provocative than nudity.

"It's no wonder you're cold to the naked form," Hermione said. There was not much more she could say. "Don't your Death Eaters tire of it?"

"They maintain it regularly, and the Harem is open to the Black Dogs and Cat's Paws," Voldemort answered. At Hermione's quizzical look, Voldemort elaborated. "Black Dog is the rank below Death Eaters. There are mostly responsible for the arbitrary torture of Muggles and Mudbloods to throw off the Death Eater scent. They are a known organization in the right circles, only loosely connected to me although they bare a mark. The Cat's Paws are my spies. They are mostly female. Sex is one of the most useful tools in this world. There are a few males, though, and they focus on expensive affairs with politicians' wives and other less quietly acceptable liaisons. Frieda was a Cat's Paw until last year when she decided she was too good for them."

"Why did you bring me here?" Hermione asked.

Voldemort slid a hood over his head, and Hermione was strongly reminded of the first day she had seen him in the Forbidden Forest.

"To visit someone," Voldemort said vaguely. He pushed her in by the small of her back, and at their entrance, a number of women swept around in expectation while others tried to hide. At Voldemort's lack of appearance, many women turned back around, ignoring the intrusion. If an anonymous Death Eater wanted them, he could pursue them on his own. The presence of another woman intrigued some of them, and they approached hesitantly.

"My master, have you brought us another companion?" murmured one woman, eyes sultry with keen desire. She seemed more interested in the girl than in the man.

Voldemort shook his head without speaking and set a hand possessively on Hermione's shoulder.

"Where is MacNair?" Voldemort whispered, disguising his voice behind a subtle hiss.

The woman's face fell as she cocked her head to the side. "With Rathna," she said. "Are you sure she is not for us?" she asked hopefully, blue eyes lighting up from behind a curtain of blonde that hid her features. "We haven't taught one in so long." A crimson glint fluttered in her gaze.

"She's mine."

"So long," the woman crooned, licking her lips.

Voldemort drew his wand, and though the woman growled, she fell to her knees and crawled away.

Hermione was frozen in spite of herself. Voldemort coaxed her to the direction the woman had indicated. "She has vampires in the family line. She's here voluntarily, and she isn't particular."

Behind a curtain, Hermione could hear two cries, one male and the other female, rhythmic and dissonant, still chilling in its combination, like predators on the first kill. Like teenagers scratching a persistent itch.

"MacNair _is_ particular," Voldemort said, waiting patiently for them to finish. "He's captured three women in his full twenty years of service. He remains exclusive with them and lets no one touch them."

Hermione turned around to look at him. "Do you know all your Death Eaters' sex lives?"

She could hear the smile in his voice. "The ones that have one, yes."

"Is copulating all they do?"

"It's all _you_ see. There are other methods. And a majority of the girls here aren't previously tortured victims. Many were abducted from the streets: drug houses, prostitution, runaways, abandoned children. The Harem isn't as bleak as Lucius made it out to be. The girls are clean and receive regular meals and comfort. It was Lucius' idea in the first place. And I must admit it keeps my Death Eaters happier, so I allow it to continue."

"He's _such_ a philanthropist," Hermione sneered.

"The Ministry once thought so," Voldemort said. "Now silence."

Hermione bowed her head. Voldemort was beside himself with pleasure. His own intelligent pet. When he wanted conversation, he could turn to her, but still she was completely under his control.

There was one final coupled shriek for release from within the curtain, then dissipated labored breathing. Hermione colored as she heard muffled murmurings as though a man was speaking through kisses. Why it bothered her escaped her, especially since she was only a third party this time.

Then, all of a sudden, the curtain was drawn and a fully dressed MacNair stepped out. Behind him lay an Indian woman. She was not very beautiful, but she had wide, warm eyes and a thin figure and thick hair that fanned over the pillows. Seeing they had visitors, Rathna sat up, and Hermione could see the woman's depth of mind in her countenance. Rathna stared straight into Hermione's eyes and smiled. MacNair, too, showed his delight with a curve of the lips and sparkle in the eye. He bowed low, with great drama but equal sincerity.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" MacNair asked as he raised himself to his considerable full height. He was, to be frank, sinfully handsome, the very description of the perfect male specimen generally only found in cheap romance novels: black hair that tumbled to his broad shoulders, a thin black mustache that was the only adornment on an otherwise smooth, chiseled face with a strong jaw and a nose that was full of character and wide mouth full of sensuality. The muscles of his arms, chest, and legs strained against the fabric of his clothes. He reeked of satisfaction and confidence and sex.

Hermione was immediately wary.

"You must be Hermione," MacNair said, charming as a gentleman, a half smile gracing his face. "I've heard… a great deal about you."

"I know you," Hermione said in response. "You were going to execute Buckbeak."

MacNair raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Hagrid's hippogriff. Four years ago," Hermione elaborated, her eyes narrowing at the memory.

MacNair nodded. "Ah, yes, the half-giant. A friend?"

"Yes," Hermione spat.

MacNair laughed in his throat. "I'll bet you looked up everything for the oaf. His arguments were far too sharp for a simpleton like him."

"He was distraught! Buckbeak _should_ have gotten off. You and I both know that!" Hermione shouted.

"Of course he should have," MacNair conceded. "I don't choose the executions. They give me a beast, I kill it. I get paid whether it's innocent or dangerous."

Hermione tried to draw back, but Voldemort held her firmly. Then she realized why Voldemort had brought her here. He knew. She did not know how, but he knew about her third year. No, she refused to play his game. She stared at MacNair, but did not answer his provocation.

MacNair stepped closer. "I've heard you are quite intelligent."

"Why?" Hermione asked, shifting her body in what might have been a calculated way had she known what practiced subtleties would catch a man's eye—Lucius had always been straight-forward. MacNair's eyes drifted to the swell of her hips.

"Why doesn't matter." MacNair's voice had gone considerably rawer, and Voldemort stepped back to allow MacNair to put his hand on Hermione's waist. "The intelligent ones are always the best. They have a sort of… intuition in the right places." His hand caressed her hair.

Hermione shifted again, aware of her slave status, but also aware of the way she was being played by Voldemort. As his lips drifted toward her mouth, she stiffened, but pressed lightly against his chest in supplication.

MacNair's eyes only deepened in mirth. "I promise I can have you screaming to have me fill you in less than two minutes."

"I'd rather not," Hermione said. MacNair looked up at Voldemort. Voldemort shook his head.

MacNair straightened. "Very well. If that is the case, simply congratulations are in order."

Hermione cocked her head suspiciously. "Why?"

"I never thought Wormtail would ever come into his own. He's so awkward, but now… he practically blossomed overnight." His voice was mocking.

"Why, have you tried him?"

"Claws in, darling," MacNair said appreciatively. He turned to Voldemort and gave another bow. "She is a magnificent specimen, my lord. She's perfect for Wormtail. But not for me, however intriguing her potential wit." He retreated back behind the curtain.

"Didn't you say MacNair was particular?" Hermione asked. Voldemort nodded then led her out of the room.

"Don't be vain," Voldemort said coldly. "Your mental abilities only enhance your body in his eyes. He does not care for you to think. And I have another person I want you to meet. He should be here in minutes."

"Another prospect?" Hermione suggested. "Who would have thought your Death Eaters would be so interested in a simple little Mudblood?"

Voldemort grabbed her neck.

"Enough." Voldemort threw her against the wall with unanticipated strength. His voice was even and measured—Hermione doubted whether his pulse rate even increased. "Enough. No, stay down there until I have finished with you." The robe had ridden up her thighs and she felt rather vulnerable with part of her open to Voldemort's view, but he paid her discomfort no mind. "You are _not_ Hermione Granger, slave. I choose to call you Hermione, and that is the only appellation you should remember. You never attended Hogwarts, you never had friends, you were never even born. You are just Hermione, my slave, and nothing else. Nothing should clutter your mind except what I allow. You will never be Hermione Granger again." Flashes of memory slid clandestine through her mind: not Lucius or Wormtail, but Crabbe and Goyle, with their mindless domination and unbending will. But Voldemort wasn't touching her or hurting her, and she was willing to take the risk to disagree.

"I will always be Hermione Granger," she said slowly. "I can pretend you won, I can pretend I'm nothing, but nothing short of Obliviate will change who I am." She straightened her robes so that she was covered properly. "I am Hermione Granger. I have two parents and a cat familiar; I've gone through a little more than six years at Hogwarts, acting as prefect fifth and sixth year, and as Head Girl in seventh. I solve the riddles, I read the books. I have two wonderful friends named Harry and Ron in Gryffindor House, and I happened to make a mistake by not having you killed when I have the chance. Forgive me for pitying you and adopting you as my temporary familiar. I am Hermione Granger," Hermione exclaimed. She sat up. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

The fire in Voldemort's eyes now burned rampant with the fervor of a furious dragon, and he crouched down so that his face was level with Hermione's; he covered her legs, exerting his own subtle control of her physical options. With a terrible restraint, Voldemort slowly unsheathed his wand and pressed it against the vulnerability of her throat. The point indented the skin menacingly. Without his fury leaving her gaze, the wand drifted down to the hollow of her collarbone; its track welled red under the tender flesh.

"I want you unspoiled," he murmured. "Your intelligence at times amuses me. Your position must remain as it is. I drop subtle hints as to your Death Eater status to Dumbledore, while from a different source comes a different explanation as to your welfare, or lack thereof. While they worry about you, they are careless in other concerns. It is useful to have you around. I _could_, however, make you silent. All that mental activity and no outlet."

"I've been silent for the last month," Hermione shot back through trembling lips.

The wand lifted to her mouth. "How does a year sound?"

Hermione took another risk. "Could _you_ live with my silence?"

Voldemort put his face in front of her until he was mere inches away. "The prospect is tempting." But his anger had diminished somewhat.

"And you wonder that I have romantic notions," Carmen muttered a few feet away. "Your position is not exactly prudent."

Voldemort closed his eyes and settled back so that he was sitting on Hermione's legs.

"Have you any sense of timing?" Voldemort asked irritably.

"I'm an old man, my lord. I don't have enough time for proper timing."

Hermione was confused. In all respects, this man did not seem a Death Eater. He was good-natured, by the lines of his face garrulous, and compassionate. And there was no Mark on his arm. His mouth showed his pity as Hermione stared at him, bewildered. His casualness also surprised her. And that Voldemort accepted it as though he was accustomed to it…

Carmen's carpet drifted closer to the floor. "No," he murmured roughly. "I can see now that my notions are incorrect. You are cold, my lord." He turned his gaze to Hermione. "But the lady is not. Are you uncomfortable, my dear?"

Hermione was speechless.

"Do you believe she is supposed to be comfortable, lecherous fool?" Voldemort said.

"What makes you think I'm lecherous?"

"I smell it on you. You're drooling."

"I appreciate beauty," Carmen explained.

Voldemort sneered. "You find this beautiful?"

"My lord, you must as well. We are men of the finer things because we have had very few of them." Carmen nodded sagely.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and he stared at Carmen from the corners of his eye, almost in the manner of a snake. Then he said carefully, "You forget your place, Franco Carmen. You presume too much. You presume I am a man. I am more than a mere man, friend. I am more." He stood. He leaned forward. "Never forget what I can do. And what I can do to you."

Carmen stayed near the floor and bent with the support of his arms, presenting the back of his head.

"My lord, I only seek to let you know your mind as I understand it. Forgive me for my presumptions. At times, we maintain friendly rapport, and it is difficult to remember my status."

"Why did you want me to meet him?" Hermione asked timidly.

Voldemort inclined his head. The coldness made his eyes glitter like false, rough-cut jewels.

"To show you," Voldemort explained, "that even those who once supported Dumbledore have come to me. Carmen is no Death Eater, but he actively thwarts Dumbledore's designs. Your precious Headmaster is fallible after all."

"As you are," Hermione snapped. She could tell Voldemort wanted to kick her, but instead, he reached over and pinched the sensitive skin under her jaw-line. Hermione jumped.

"He is an imperious one, lady," Carmen said with a chuckle. "He likes his way."

"You make me sound like a child," Voldemort said, amused.

"To me, an old man, you will always be a child. It may be why Dumbledore calls you Tom. That was how he knew you." Carmen settled back on his carpet, enjoying the new peace.

Hermione shook her head. "Professor Dumbledore calls him Tom because it is a way to strip V—my lord from his power and standing. It draws him back to a place and time when he was still learning under Professor Dumbledore. He does it to make my lord angry. Tom is an ordinary name, not the name of a Dark Lord."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow and observed Hermione in silence for a long moment. His face was inscrutable. He finally murmured, "Well."

Carmen, too, looked at Hermione more closely. "Well said indeed. Never would have thought of that."

"You know what goes on in Dumbledore's mind?" Voldemort asked. Possibilities of slight extractions such as the one accidentally made whirled through his head. If she knew Dumbledore's psychology, she could be a great asset apart from torturing the man and Harry Potter. If he could somehow start her talking, perhaps say something so wrong she would have to correct him… the new door opened like it had once concealed a prize and now permitted access to the glory within. He might even be able to give her her wand when he could trust her with it, and she could unwittingly help their cause. He would have to be cunning: she was not the kind of woman to easily be deceived, but she might so be clouded by emotional turmoil, whether positive or negative, that she would like to believe his change of heart was real. No, he would have to think on this one. Sleep on it, perhaps.

Hermione did not like that calculating look that Voldemort was giving her, but she answered, "Of course I don't know Dumbledore's mind. It is merely a logical guess from what I see and what I distinguish and what I understand. I cannot be sure. I'm Hermione Granger, not Albus Dumbledore."

Voldemort sensed the jab sent to him by her use of her full name, and he pinched the sensitive place again. Hermione repressed the instinct to strike back. She turned away, presenting her profile in a half-ignoring state. Harry's face swam in her vision, encouraging.

_We're going to rescue you_, he said comfortingly. _We're going to get you back._ But her more cynical side told her they had not found her yet. _They don't know where his secret fortress is_, she thought grimly. _They said so. They're never going to find me. I'm going to be a prisoner forever. I'm going to cater to Lord Voldemort's arbitrary whims for the rest of my likely short life_.

Voldemort's thin fingers clasped Hermione's chin, maneuvering her head until she was facing him.

"At least Carmen doesn't want you in his bed," Voldemort said gently. He muttered to Carmen, "You are dismissed."

"Lovely to meet you, lady," Carmen said, taking Hermione's hand and saluting it before heading into the Harem.

"Why did he leave Dumbledore? I haven't read about that happening before," Hermione said.

Voldemort took her wrist and lifted her to her feet. "A number of reasons, none of them good. Strange, actually. He may have mental problems imbedded deep in his skull that he has yet to show, but for now his thought processes seem remotely sane at least." With a deliberation that disconcerted Hermione, Voldemort brushed the hair out of her face, looking closely at her eyes as if they showed him something tremendously important.

"It has been a difficult day for you, hasn't it?" Voldemort murmured.

"You knew it would be," Hermione replied.

"Yes," he agreed.

Without another word, he led her back to the room.

"My lord," Hermione said as he fettered her once more, "why did you get so angry? Isn't that detrimental to the image you want to present to me?"

Voldemort folded his legs lotus-style in front of her again.

Cocking his head slightly, he said slowly, "I suppose I did lose my temper."

"You've lost your temper before, and it has been known to distract you," Hermione said, leaning back against the foot of the bed.

"Before you become comfortable… the robe." He gestured to it. Hermione sighed and removed it. "Yes, to become emotional at the wrong time can thwart one's own designs, but at other times, it can hold a beneficial lesson to its recipient. I will admit to the temper I displayed earlier. Thank you for saving me from potential trouble with myself in the future."

Hermione could hit herself for her curiosity that had originally been meant as a taunt. "You're welcome."

"Hermione, look at me." She obeyed, gazing into his dark red eyes as though gazing at her own blood.

"You will never escape nor be rescued from here. You know that, don't you?"

Hermione dropped her head.

"Look at me."

She did.

"He—they can do nothing for you."

"They will try," Hermione snapped. "And in doing so, they will hurt you along the way."

Voldemort smirked. "What makes you think they will?"

"I may not know what goes through Dumbledore's head, but I _know_ Harry, I _know_ him. Even if he goes alone, he'll find a way," Hermione spat.

"And get himself killed in the process."

"He's been lucky since day one; I'm sure his luck will continue to stand. All he has to show from his struggles with you is a simple scar."

Voldemort's cheek twitched, but he remained calm. He knew her game.

"No, not just a scar. He has no peace, no rest. He can form no true intimate connections without his friends getting hurt. You think kidnapping you rather than simply killing you was random? You were taken because you are—or at least _were_—a close friend of Potter's. He may have one physical scar, but how many scars do you think he has where you can't see them?"

Hermione was stricken. Voldemort's words brought her back to a conversation she had once had with Harry.

_"Hermione," Harry said glumly, "maybe… maybe you should stop being my friend. I mean, you can still fight on the Order's side, but just don't be my friend. Something bad is going to happen to you, I know it. It you're my friend, they'll target you."_

_"No," she insisted, "ridiculous. I don't care if a thousand Death Eaters curse me to pieces. I'll still scream from those pieces 'I'm still Harry Potter's friend.' It'll be on my epitaph. But don't be stupid. Even if we stage this big fight, the fact that I _was_ one of Harry Potter's best friends would still make me a likely target. And I'm not going to deny you. I wouldn't even deny Ron, not for a million Galleons. It may be unashamedly sentimental, but friends like us, we're going to stay friends for a while."_

_"It's going to hurt, Hermione, when you get hurt."_

_Hermione reached out with her hands and grasped the side of his head. "Don't. Don't let it cause you pain. It's not going to cause me pain. Not mentally, that is. I won't let it."_

_Harry raised his eyes. "What if we're not as strong as we think we are?"_

_"Harry, Harry, Harry, considering you've survived this long…"_

_"I said 'we,' Hermione," Harry interrupted. "_I've_ lasted, but you and Ron are the ones who always get hit. Especially you. You've been hit more than Ron. The basilisk…"_

_"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione insisted. "I _decided_ I wanted to stay with you. And I still do."_

Hermione looked up. "You _can't_ hurt me. As long as you can't hurt me, you can't hurt him."

Voldemort sneered. "How Gryffindor of you." Leaning forward, he said, "But just because you suddenly chose to say you weren't affected by anything doesn't mean you have not been affected." He touched her heart. "This has been hardened, but only because it has been hurt."

"Who said it's been hardened?" Hermione countered.

"It's impossible to live here and stay sensitive. If you hadn't shielded yourself, you would have fallen long ago. If you ever leave, you shall not be unscathed."

This time, Hermione felt the blow—he had given her a spark of hope that he could crush: a maybe, an 'if.'

The door opened, and both Voldemort and Hermione twisted to see who dared to intrude Voldemort's private quarters.

Wormtail.

When Wormtail saw them both, he cringed. "Forgive me, my lord, I didn't—"

"Expect me to be here?" Voldemort finished for him. "And what would you have done had I not been here, Wormtail?"

"Ah—erm—er—well…" Wormtail stammered, his eyes drifting to where Hermione sat naked in front of the bed.

"Pray that the Interrogation Aurors never get their hands on you," Voldemort said in a disgusted tone. "You wanted Hermione."

"Ah—well…"

"Yes, we've been through all that. But you haven't answered me. Were you willing to brave my wrath for… a tumble with a girl?" Voldemort stood so that he towered over the diminutive Wormtail.

Wormtail trembled. "I-I asked y-you f-f-for her," he said hesitatingly.

"And I said no," Voldemort replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't understand…" Wormtail began; his eyes strayed back to Hermione and he involuntarily licked his lips.

"I understand," Voldemort said, composed, "that you are willing to die to have Hermione."

Wormtail's eyes flashed in anger. "You've never had a woman yourself, not really. You wouldn't understand that there are men who spend their entire lies looking for a girl. Don't you understand that?"

Voldemort took his wand form his sleeve and pointed it at Wormtail. "_Crucio_," he said softly. Hermione saw his face; there was no malice, only the countenance of a teacher chastising his stubborn student. When he finally lifted his wand away, Wormtail panted on the floor, holding himself against the wracks of his body.

"I've had women, Wormtail," Voldemort said. "I remember what it was like. Yet I've remained abstinent for a few decades. Men who chase women for their entire lives, whose purpose in life revolves around sex, are weaker than men addicted to other things. Woman can come for free. At least men wanting substances need to make their connections. I permit the Harem for temporary enjoyment. I occasionally permit mistresses if they do not distract my Death Eaters from their task at hand. You, however, are far too easily distracted."

"How if she were my mistress?" Wormtail insisted earnestly. "If she were mine, she'd be less of a distraction."

Voldemort curled his lip. "I highly doubt that. Your work with me has lately declined in quality if not in quantity. If you intended to impress..."

"A momentary lapse. It will improve, my lord," Wormtail pleaded.

The Dark Lord's eyes thinned into slits. "Yes, it will, with or without the girl." Smiling once more, Voldemort sat a hand on Hermione's hair. "However, the second she commits a horrendous transgression, I will call for you."

Hermione closed her eyes and buried her face in her knees to hide the angry and shameful flush on her cheeks, and to avoid Wormtail's lusty glances, for Voldemort had given him, too, hope—hope more probable than the hope afforded her.

Voldemort nodded. "Go, Wormtail. Should anything like this happen again, you'll find yourself in conditioning."

Wormtail's fear was suddenly as thick as molasses.

"Oh, yes, and also if your absolute loyalty to me, and me alone, is tried again…"

"My master, please, no," Wormtail cried, falling to his knees with his hands clasped before him.

"If you do not improve, Wormtail…" Voldemort let the threat trail off emphatically.

Wormtail bowed quickly. "Of course, my lord, yes, my lord…"

He ran from the room.

Hermione revealed her face and muttered, "A man is born from the womb and for the rest of his life finds himself seeking for a way to get back in."

Voldemort laughed, though he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled. "My promise to you and Wormtail still stands, Hermione. Don't test my will."

He went about his business, ready to leave the room.

"My lord," Hermione called.

Voldemort faced her and waited.

"Why were you so kind to me when you were Belthazar?" Hermione had pondered this for her time alone in his room, and the day's events led her to ask him finally the reason for his behavior. Her memories flitted about her sincere affection, the times he had protected her, shared her bed as a familiar, helped her with her work. This serpent seemed worlds away from the one she remembered.

Voldemort was silent for a moment as he contemplated the question. Finally, he said, "The spell."

Then he left.

Hermione could tell there was something in his mind he did not want her to know.

888

"Harry, I summoned you here so that I could confess. I told her, practically ordered her to keep the snake, to keep Belthazar, and I… Harry, I know this will deeply trouble you… I knew the snake was Tom. Yes, I knew. It was the eyes, the blood-red eyes. The Animagus was logical and his presence was unmistakable. I confess it."

"You mean…" Harry began.

"She did not want to keep Belthazar. I thought… maybe… with the snake-charming spell we might have the weapon we needed to defeat him without killing him. He was placid with her. Tame as a kitten. I thought, maybe this is it. I should have killed it then. But I just wasn't sure enough. And that, despite its hatred of you, it also hated everyone else, even the Slytherins, put me off-track. But now… it is clear. Harry, don't look at me like that. I am fallible, too, you know that."

Harry backed away, trembling with rage. "You… you put _Hermione_ into danger? It's bad enough when you put me in the front line, but Hermione, Professor Dumbledore? When you wouldn't even let her into the Order because of the danger, you gave her the responsibility of handling Lord Voldemort… intimately? How could you?"

"Harry, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, you'd better be," Harry snarled. "What were you thinking?"

"That Tom could be defeated in a different way," Dumbledore said in a low voice.

"Leave the idealistic bullshit to the media. You've been in a war," Harry accused. "You know you can't always do the good thing in a war, only the right thing. Don't you get it? It's him or me, that's what the prophecy says."

Dumbledore's voice rose. "Even the most air-tight prophecies have been wrong."

"You should never have knowingly put Hermione in that situation without telling her."

"And what if she had joined him!" Dumbledore bellowed. "I was suspicious of her loyalties after her Dark Activities. What if I told her, and she decided to offer our secrets to him? I had to be careful. With the decisions she made, she didn't make mine any easier."

Harry yelled back, "If there is one thing I've learned in this school, it's that every secret we keep leads us further into a mess. If there isn't communication, we know nothing at all. We're blind in Voldemort's maze. We've only made it easier for him."

"I did what I thought was right," Dumbledore said.

"No," Harry disagreed. "You did what you thought was good."

**Author notes:** Like Carmen, MacNair was also one of Voldemort's followers who wanted to come out, so I let him. I was a bit taken aback when the movie made him ugly as a sin after I'd already come up with a picture of him as the gothic villain. Then again, everyone evil in PoA was ugly to the point of being surreal (hack, cough Wormtail cough), so I guess I can leave things as they are.


	11. Chapter 10

**Title:** Abyss (10)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** Okay, everyone. The R is now completely official. For the next 2 to 3 chapters, there are very mature situations. Death Eaters are not romantic or glorified (except Carmen, but he's not a DE). Everything you see for the next few chapters is unadulterated evil, and don't expect anything less. **Extended: **This chapter is edited.

**Chapter 10**

Hermione had been alone in Voldemort's chambers for an indeterminable amount of time. She spent her waking hours looking for some way, any way at all, to escape. She memorized every nook and cranny, every book on the shelves, every snifter of brandy in the liquor cabinet, every crease in the bed.

She spent the rest of her time sleeping or in a haze and waiting for Voldemort to wake her again at his whim.

But when she finally woke to find someone in the room again, that someone was not Voldemort, but the woman she recognized at Bellatrix Lestrange.

The woman sneered at Hermione's emaciated figure.

"Here," she snapped, throwing a flask of water and an apple at Hermione's head. "Eat something, Mudblood."

Hermione's sudden hunger overshadowed the insult. She bit firmly into the apple, sucking at the juices enthusiastically. She did not know how long she had been without water or sustenance. With the introduction of food into her system, her stomach awoke a writhed at its prolonged abstinence. Hermione doubled over at the first wave of cramps while Bellatrix laughed.

"The Dark Lord requests your presence at his feet during the Death Eater initiation," Bellatrix said delightedly as Hermione took a swig of water and grimaced at its combination with the aftertaste of the fruit. Hermione had not even heard her and barely paid attention until Bellatrix tossed a plain brown shift at Hermione, covering her head. Hermione sputtered as she choked on her last sip of water. She pulled the garment from her face.

"He wants you clothed at the initiation," Bellatrix explained, still grinning madly. "Seems to think it would be a detriment if the rest of them see you both naked and in such a submissive position in front of our lord and master. Like a dog, Mudblood, like a cowering bitch."

"And I'd rather be a token of supremacy rather than be so blatantly hypocritical like your master," Hermione said.

Hermione screamed as Bellatrix pointed her wand at her, eyes livid and lips white with rage. It felt as though a lightning storm had erupted from inside of her and was forking through her veins. She was vaguely aware of her head banging against the foot of the bed in a violent seizure; the back of her head slowly swelled and ached even as Hermione wished for some way to make it end.

Finally, the curse was lifted and Hermione lay shaking on the floor.

"I am the Dark Lord's most faithful servant," Bellatrix said breathlessly. "You will not insult him before me."

"Are you lovers?" Hermione asked, breathless herself but quite annoyed with Voldemort for sending a servant rather than waking her himself. _Where has he been sleeping?_ She appraised Bellatrix coldly and with more than a trace of disgust.

"No," said Bellatrix almost wistfully, and Hermione nearly gagged. "He is my mentor, my father, my brother, my master, everything—he taught me everything I know." Her eyes glazed as her thoughts trailed to the Dark Lord. "Except for Frieda, I am the only female Death Eater, but I am no sex slave like that two-Knut slut. I am trusted with great secrets."

"Like what?" Hermione asked, hoping she had caught Bellatrix in a confessional mood. But Bellatrix spat at her and said, "Put on the shift."

Hermione obliged, if only to hide her vulnerable body from Bellatrix's bloodthirsty gaze. As she pulled the neckline over her head, she caught something on Bellatrix's face, but it could not have been. Why would Bellatrix be jealous of her?

The female Death Eater released her from the shackles on the bed only to charm a chain around Hermione's neck. With an expected jerk, Bellatrix began leading Hermione out of Voldemort's quarters. Hermione shuddered as a cold strip of cloth wrapped around her eyes.

"My master says that even in the improbability that you escape, and you remember the way out without meeting one of his followers," Bellatrix said with relish, "you still don't have your wand and you don't know where you are. He is not particularly worried, but he does want you blind. You don't know this fortress, and he wants it to stay that way."

She barely memorized the directions they took as it was. Hermione guessed that all these twists and turns, despite what Bellatrix had said, were meant to confuse her so that she would not remember. A few times they seemed to double back and go the same way twice—Hermione wondered just how big the fortress was.

Hermione shuddered as her feet passed from the warm carpet to cold stone, then dewy grass. Bellatrix removed the blindfold and shoved her forward.

"I expect you know what to do with her, Lucius," Bellatrix sneered. "Won't let your ridiculous lusts keep you from obeying our master's orders again, will you?"

"I wouldn't be pointing fingers, cousin," Lucius said, taking hold of Hermione's shoulders. "I wasn't the one thrown naked from the Dark Lord's bed chamber a few months back."

Bellatrix snarled and unsheathed her wand.

"Give it a rest, Bella," Lucius said dismissively. "We don't have time for this."

"I overheard the Dark Lord saying the son is more useful than the father," Bellatrix said. "Any knowledge of that?"

Hermione was stunned when color tinged Lucius's pale cheeks.

"My son," Lucius retorted, "lost the Dark Lord to a Mudblood."

"Because the father didn't tell him anything, even though it is clear that Draco is ready for us. In our line of work, it's not safe to make mistakes."

"And _you_ have a perfect record, of course." Lucius ran a hand through Hermione's hair. "I've heard _Crucio_ flung in your direction, but that may have been my hopeful imagination."

"Let's just take the Mudblood to our master and dispose of her," Bellatrix snapped. "I'm feeling dirty enough as it is."

Lucius took Hermione by the upper arm and began dragging her over the lawn. As they went, Hermione looked up at the night sky. It was a clear night, but a new moon, so the only sources of dim light were the stars. Wherever she was, at least the stars were familiar. In her preoccupation to clutch at her only handhold to her old world, Hermione stumbled forward. Lucius yanked her back up, making her arm cry out silently in protest, and Bellatirx struck her with her wand. Hermione put a hand to her neck where the thin, stinging welt was already rising. But she did not complain—in truth, she had expected much more from Bellatrix Lestrange. She could only assume that Voldemort issued instructions to not harm her.

They reached the swell of the hill up which they were climbing, and not only stars lit the frigid night. Sprawled across the lawn were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people in gray cloaks—maskless—and torches surrounded them like a pagan gathering of fire demons, sentinels on dangerous ground. In the center of the throng was a huge bonfire, the blazing higher than the trees that made up the forest in the distance. _How are they hiding all this?_ she wondered. This was no simple gathering—this was an entire community! Her faith in the Order, as small as it was in comparison, wavered.

"Look, Hermione," Lucius murmured. "Did you ever imagine the Dark Lord had so many followers?"

Hermione stifled a sob—_The Order needs to know about this­­--_and found she could not take her eyes away.

"Lucius, old fellow," someone called, breaking from the mass of Lord Voldemort's followers. MacNair, his trademark smirk in its rakish place, strode up to them. "Ah, Bellatrix, always a pleasure. The Dark Lord is waiting for the girl. But keep her in the shadows until she is at his throne. Part of the Dark Lord's plan."

"Why the secrecy?" Lucius asked.

MacNair grinned. "You'll see. The girl is going to put on quite a show. After all, _all_ the Death Eaters have been Summoned."

Bellatrix chuckled and began down the hill to join the rest.

"Still clueless, Lucius?" MacNair said. "Don't worry, everything will become clear in just a few minutes. Meanwhile, the Dark Lord is becoming impatient. Stay in the shadows," he concluded before retreating back to his fellow Death Eaters.

"Why weren't all these people at the Feast?" Hermione breathed.

"Some Death Eaters have other priorities, namely, not getting caught. A Death Eater in Azkaban is no use to us. They had other engagements that helped retain their image of respected members of society. Then some are too far away, and Apparition over too great a distance can be draining. Also, I said these people were _followers_ of the Dark Lord. I didn't say they were all Death Eaters. And the recruits are still in the forest."

"How many of the recruits are from Hogwarts?" she asked, trembling.

Lucius gave a vulpine smile. "I believe you'll recognize a fair few, Mudblood. And a fair few of them will recognize you."

_There will be full Death Eaters at Hogwarts_, she thought with growing dread. _Next Voldemort will be storming the castle… with that infiltration, not to mention influence… and without Dumbledore knowing… even with its wards, Hogwarts won't stand a chance…._ Hermione felt her knees grow weak at the thought. If only Dumbledore knew how _easy_ it was.

It was not until Lucius forced her down the entire length of the gathering that Hermione saw where Lord Voldemort was. His throne of roughly-hewn stone had been conjured to the grass, and Voldemort sat there, seemingly unaware of the chaos around him as well as the wary glances and the few people he kept with him behind his throne. Wormtail was there, fidgeting like always, and Carmen hovered nearby, almost disappearing into the background. It amazed her how someone more scarred than Moody could blend into a crowd. Hermione assumed Lucius, Bellatrix, MacNair, and Rodolphus would join him. The inner circle—the faces with which she was familiar—all seemed to be in the same general area around the Dark Lord. But he paid them no attention; he merely rested his chin against his clenched hand and stared straight ahead. His scarlet eyes were half-lidded, pensive. Once Hermione crossed the threshold from the shadows to the vast group alit by the torches, Voldemort blinked and turned as though he had woken from a light sleep. His lip curled derisively. The hand that had supported his chin now reached out for her chains.

"Not here," he said, "the chains don't belong here. _Finite Incantatem_." The chains disappeared. There was a rush of cool air where the links had chaffed. Hermione's hand involuntarily covered the light red marks. But then she took Voldemort's proffered hand, tentative with his overt coldness. At a sharp tug, Hermione stumbled forward.

"_Sensitimperio_," Voldemort hissed.

"Just sit here for a few minutes until Severus comes," Voldemort whispered. Hermione tried to make sense of the order, but found herself dragged to the ground at Voldemort's feet by her own limbs.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Voldemort said. "I've developed it myself. It's much more affective than the Imperius Curse, even under its basic pronunciation alterations. After all, you can think freely, but everything physical about your body is under my control. And this _knowledge_ that you are doing things you don't want to do makes it very different from the floating oblivion of Imperius and far more difficult to throw off."

"Ingenious, my lord," Lucius said, grinning at Hermione evilly.

"Join the others," Voldemort ordered without looking at him, "and signal me when Severus finally comes."

Lucius bowed and left them.

"Another benefit of Sensitimperius is that I don't have to actually _tell_ you what to do—you do what my mind thinks you should do. This makes it nigh untraceable."

"You are _too_ clever, my lord," Hermione found herself saying in a fawning but seemingly sincere fashion. Inside, Hermione's stomach roiled in disgust at the words.

"Also, an interesting aspect of the curse is that I've already indicated to you through my mind what you are to do, and you don't even know. It makes the results far more spontaneous."

Hermione wanted to slap his smug face. The development really _was_ clever and cunning, but it was _evil_, _terrible_, and she could not do anything without Voldemort's commands. Her brain struggled to move her hand, but it lay there limp in Voldemort's own.

Suddenly, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

"Look, Hermione," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the inner circle around him. "It appears that Severus Snape has deigned to meet us."

The imperious command resonated in her mind—_Ply your wares, Mudblood slut_—followed by cold laughter. Voldemort helped her to stand. Hermione kissed his forehead reverently, then she stepped back, letting her hand linger in his until she was too far, giving the teasing impression that she wanted to remain with him. Within her own mind, Hermione was seething. What was he playing at? And why was he making out Snape's appearance at the initiation to be wrong? Oh. _No_…

"Severus," Voldemort said softly. "I told you I never wanted to see your face among us again."

Hermione could not turn her head to look at Snape—where were her feet taking her?—but she heard his answer.

"When you Summon, Voldemort," Snape replied, notably calling him by name rather than status, "it is not so easy to ignore. The Dark Mark is persistent."

Oh, gods… not only did that mean that Snape had been found out, but Hermione was approaching Wormtail, who was looking at her as she came, his eyes drifting down to where the thin material showcased the shapes of her breasts and legs. Inside, Hermione screamed at what she now knew Voldemort had commanded her, but on the outside, she smiled coquettishly and stroked Wormtail's stomach lightly, close enough to the place where Wormtail was truly interested. Her other arm snaked around his neck.

"While we're waiting for the initiation," she heard herself whisper, "do you want to…" It was clear that Wormtail did want to, and he made no protestations as Hermione began to devour his mouth with her tongue while stroking him in slow, tight movements. He moaned against her mouth and ran his hands urgently over her body. Hermione had to fight the urge to vomit. Her self-loathing and hatred for Wormtail and Voldemort only increased to new heights. Then Lucius joined them, nuzzling her neck and kneading her breasts. Wormtail did not mind.

Wormtail was only taking advantage of a good thing while Lucius knew, he _knew_, and was only completing the picture that Voldemort wanted Snape to see—of Hermione the traitor, Hermione the slut. _No, Professor, this isn't me!_ she wanted to cry out, but her tongue was more engaged in other matters—namely torturing Lucius and Wormtail by intertwining with their tongues while preventing them from removing her clothes. Clearly, Voldemort was also taking the lash to Wormtail—that and he did not want an orgy on his hands… yet.

The only way for Hermione to stand it was to listen to the conversation between Snape and the Dark Lord. Maybe there was still hope…

"So," Voldemort murmured, "the self-righteous Potions Master learns that it is not so simple to take another side. It is not so simple to betray me. It is not so simple to leave me."

"Voldemort, I couldn't give a damn about how I've betrayed you," Snape said, all slippery finesse gone. "In fact, I couldn't give a damn if you tortured me and killed me like you do the Aurors. And you know that perfectly well."

"The Dark Mark is still branded on your flesh, Severus," Voldemort said. "It still burns when my Death Eaters are called to me. Your full loyalty may be to that old fool, but you will always be a Death Eater; you will always belong to me."

Hermione could sense a lull in the exchange. Then, "Voldemort, you are a fool."

"Am I?" Voldemort said in that subtly dangerous way.

"You are a fool if you don't realize that you are terrified of an old man and a child, and more of a fool if you don't realize that eventually that old man and that child will defeat you."

There was a pregnant silence. Voldemort's rage spread thick like a red fog, but the Dark Lord restrained himself while exuding waves of power.

Lucius chose that moment to bite Hermione's neck, and though she had been mute thus far during the acts, Voldemort made her cry out in delight. The sound carried through the silence as if it were a solid thing.

"Miss Granger!" The normally collected voice of her Professor lapsed into unmitigated surprise.

The puppet-Hermione started, then broke away from her two ardent lovers—Wormtail struggled to keep hold of her—and ran a hand through her hair.

"Professor Snape," puppet-Hermione said sheepishly. But she still gave the appearance of being unashamed. Her other hand drifted over her breast. Snape watched its progress with dark eyes. "Imagine meeting you here. I thought you weren't allowed."

"I'm not," Snape said, his cadence back to its original calculation. "But neither did I expect _you_ here.'

Puppet-Hermione gave a flirty laugh. "But he told you, didn't he? Our lord told you I'd joined him." _No, Professor, please, it's not me. It's not me!_

His gaze flickered down her body. "You don't have the Dark Mark," he said shortly.

Puppet-Hermione gave another little laugh. "Why do you think I'm here? I'm Death Eater only in name now, but after tonight, I'll have the mark of my master as well." _It's Voldemort, Professor Snape, can't you see how pleased he is? Don't you remember what I'm really like?_ "And… I'm enjoying myself immensely." Voldemort did not let her push Wormtail away when he took her in his arms again and began kissing her neck and slipping a hand between her legs. Hermione would have blushed if she could as Voldemort made her respond outwardly to every caress. He was doing all this for Snape… he had wanted Snape to come… he wanted Snape to see her like this… he was going to let Snape go back and tell the Order, tell _Harry_….

_Please, Professor, you know I'd never…_

"And when I thought you could stoop no lower." Hermione knew only she and Voldemort could hear the fury behind the statement.

"Don't know," puppet-Hermione panted, "could do you, betrayer, couldn't I?"

"I wouldn't be talking, _Miss_ Granger. From best friend of Potter to a Death Eater whore. I really wouldn't be talking."

Puppet-Hermione licked her lips at Snape, then proceeded to push Wormtail to the ground. She straddled his hips aggressively and consumed the sensitive skin of his neck. No one, least of all Snape, missed the utterly blissful expression on Wormtail's face.

"Forgive me if I feel compelled to take my leave," Snape said, adjusting himself from his disgust and hatred to a more frigid mien, "but I am clearly not wanted here."

"Did you think I had lied, Severus?" Voldemort murmured. Wormtail groaned loudly as Hermione's head dipped lower.

"I'm not a Death Eater," Snape said, "and I should not be here. Just be sure not to Summon me as well next time."

"You will always be a Death Eater, Severus," Voldemort replied, finally standing. He raised his wand. "You are blood-bound to me—you gave your blood as a willing servant, and you will always be that servant. If you want the Mark off, cut your arm away and cripple yourself from your precious potions." Voldemort sneered. "You were never wanted here. You made the biggest mistake when you denied me. _Crucio_."

Snape fell to the ground, writhing, and the Dark mark _burned_, it burned bright red.

"_Portus_," Voldemort chanted. When Snape clutched for something to hold in the ground, his fingers closed on the grass and he disappeared. Then Voldemort whipped around and cast, "_Finite Incantatem_" at Hermione. Wormtail moaned in sexual frustration as Hermione emerged, dark red, from under Wormtail's robes.

Voldemort smirked and folded his arms. As tears streamed down her face, Voldemort raised an eyebrow.

"Now that this little episode has passed," he said for everyone to hear, "the initiation can finally begin. Come, Hermione, at my feet again," he commanded, returning to the throne and directing her to the grass with one thin finger.

Hermione opened her mouth to scream at him, but all that came out was a furious yell, and Hermione lunged at Voldemort. Her hands curled around his neck and squeezed.

"_Repulso_," Voldemort said before she got a good grip. Hermione flew backward. "Now," he murmured softly, "perhaps the Mudblood bitch can behave herself and sit at my feet. Because I assure her, all she has is me. Your precious Potter and the Order will never try to find you now. And it is all your doing—your meddling into the Dark Arts like a naïve little cat. It is pointless, Hermione. Come, come to your lord and master." His brow darkened. "…Unless you would like to spend the rest of the evening with Wormtail."

Hermione wanted to hide her face—gods, she wished she could _die_—but she slowly crawled over to the Dark Lord's throne and collapsed at his feet.

"My lord," Wormtail said in a strained voice.

"Go service yourself if you must," Voldemort snapped. "You've done your part."

Hermione turned her head around to look at Wormtail, and for the first time she felt a stab of pity for him. Across his face was hurt, hurt that Hermione had not really been loving him and hurt that he had been so used. He held his silver hand out to the torchlight, blinked at Hermione, then swept away from the frivolling into the shadows. She almost wanted to go to him and apologize…

Yes. Apologize, in spite of the roiling of her stomach, in spite of the pain that Wormtail had caused her, in spite of the way that he, too, had used her. Of them all, the only one there at the initiation more used than Wormtail was Hermione, and the persistent blush on her face, the turning of her stomach, the pulling of her heart, the utter humiliation, so strong it was almost a physical thing… she understood what Wormtail was feeling.

Silently, as the beginning of the formal initiation proceeded, Hermione closed her eyes and called out through the night with her mind, hoping beyond hope that they could here her:

_Professor Snape, I'm so sorry, that wasn't me, please, please, you're observant, it wasn't me. Tell Dumbledore—he'll have to know that I was under some spell… Harry… Harry, Ron, Ginny… what will happen what Snape says that I really am a Death Eater, I really am a whore… they'll be devastated, disheartened, demoralized, they'll never trust in me again. Please—I'm thin, so thin, wearing a simple, threadbare shift, I have the marks of chains and shackles all over me—please, please don't believe Voldemort. I know that I betrayed your trust once, but that was only for you, for the Order… Please…._

She buried her head in her hands.


	12. Chapter 11

**Title:** Abyss (11)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** All right, official R again, sensitive subject matter ahead. I'll explain a bit more fully where it comes from at the end. There's a reason I changed Angst to Horror for the secondary genre. **Extended:** This chapter is edited.

**Chapter 11**

Voldemort's hand curled in her hair and pulled her head upright.

"Don't hide the shame, Hermione," Voldemort said. "Let every initiated Death Eater see your anguished face."

Hermione saw a vision in her head of curling her fingers around the Dark Lord's neck again and squeezing, squeezing as hard as she could. She did not care if the Death Eaters cursed her to oblivion if she could only kill him for Harry and Dumbledore and the Order. And for herself.

Voldemort smiled, eyes narrowed in pleasure. "Oh, don't hate me yet, Hermione. So much more is going to happen here for you to hate me now."

Hermione's mind came back to reality and sharpened to a fine point. The recruits, a mass of physical darkness, were oozing their way across the vast lawn. The Death Eaters, Black Dogs, and Cat's Paws had donned their masks and formed a semi-circle around Lord Voldemort's throne. The new recruits would complete the circle at the end of the ceremony. They had all become strangely silent, even the Cat's Paws who, resplendent in their well-tailored, dark-crimson robes, draped themselves over their respective Black Dogs in their coal black robes.

_A sign of the apocalypse_, Hermione thought grimly. _Dogs and cats together…_

Lucius lead the recruits forward into the light of the torches—they, too, were wearing robes of the group into which they would be initiated. The hoods were down, and Hermione could see their faces as they lined up according to future ranks—Cat's Paws, Black Dogs next, then a small line of Death Eaters. She shuddered as she recognized some of the faces.

Voldemort's grip on her hair softened, and he gently stroked the top of her head.

"So it begins," he murmured. Then, with his free hand, he beckoned to the recruits.

"Come forward," he called to them.

The Cat's Paws were the first to approach the Dark Lord. All through the ceremony, Voldemort stroked her unruly mass of curls with his left hand. He held out his right hand for the recruits to kiss before prostrating themselves before him and kissing his left boot reverently.

"Pansy," Hermione whispered under her breath. The cute Slytherin giggled as she stood upright from her degradation.

"About time, Mudblood," Pansy muttered, eyes twinkling gleefully. "You're right where you belong."

Hermione tolled her eyes. "And they call me a whore," she said.

Voldemort leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You are." The candor of the dispassionate statement shocked Hermione into silence through the remainder of the Cat's Paw initiation. Lavender Brown sneered at Hermione. There were a few other Slytherin girls and a Hufflepuff. Not a single Ravenclaw.

The Cat's Paws lined next to the veteran Dark followers and waited for Voldemort's blessing.

"Do you know your duty?" Lord Voldemort asked. His soft voice carried effortlessly over the crowd.

"We know our duty," the new Cat's Paws intoned.

"And to whom do you owe your loyalty?"

"To our Dark Lord and Master."

"Do you know the punishment for disobedience?"

"We do."

Voldemort raised his wand to the sky. "_Signa feline_," he cried. It was as though invisible claws had raked red tears in the air.

"_Separate_," the Dark Lord then said, and the cat claws split and applied themselves to the upper arms of the new Cat's Paws – bright red before turning invisible. Their responsibilities made it necessary for some discretion. Hermione heard a few of them cry out in pain, and all of them grasped impulsively at the burning of the mark.

"Your vow has been sealed," Voldemort said. "Do not fail me."

Voldemort stood to pace beside the initiated Cat's Paws. Before a few of them, he lifted the chins and examined them. Hermione watched as each Cat's Paw tried not to flinch. Only Pansy grinned and rubbed her cheek against his hand. The gesture brought a smile to Voldemort's mouth.

"That, my precious kittens, is what you were supposed to do. You will not always be flirting with the man of your choice," Voldemort announced. He took Pansy by the arm to a cluster of veteran mistresses of state.

"Take her into your care," Voldemort instructed. "The others still need training." The recruits flinched.

The Dark Lord returned to his throne and beckoned to the Black Dogs, who went through the same deferential ritual. Most of the Black Dogs were older men and a few older women that Hermione did not recognize. The youngest of the lot were none other than Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle—and the way they were sneering stupidly at her made her stomach tighten. Malfoy was here.

The speech Voldemort made was similar, but the incantation he spoke to the sky was "_Signa canine_." The three black claw marks fell onto the Black Dogs' right forearms directly opposite the Death Eaters' Dark Mark, and these did not disappear. Unlike the Cat's Paws, they crouched to the ground in the circle with heads bowed. Voldemort took a chalice inlaid with garnets and dipped his fingers into the cup. The Black Dogs lifted their foreheads, and Voldemort removed his hand from the chalice—his white fingers were dripping with thick blood.

"From my blood," Voldemort murmured, smearing each forehead with the crimson liquid. With horror, Hermione realized Voldemort was drawing on the powerful bonds of blood baptizing. The perverted baptism enforced absolute loyalty on pain of death or worse.

"If you ever speak my name or reveal the Mark, you will be killed." The words were cold and laced with authority. "You answer only to me, but no one will know of us. From my blood, the binding is secured. So be it."

"So be it," the new Black Dogs replied. They got to their feet and covered their faces with the black hoods and masks.

Again, Voldemort returned to his throne. He handed the chalice to Hermione. With the lift of an eyebrow, Voldemort made it clear that were Hermione to empty the contents of the chalice, not just his blood would be spilled that night. When he sat back in his chair, he let his hand wrap loosely around the nape of her neck.

"My Death Eaters," he crooned.

There were seven Death Eaters recruits, and Hermione recognized all of them. Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Millicent Bulstrode, Morag MacDougal, a quiet Slytherin who Hermione thought had more sense, Lisa Turpin, a notoriously ambitious Ravenclaw, Susan Bones (which made Hermione narrow her eyes in suspicion), and Theodore Nott.

"Come here, my own," Voldemort hissed in barely repressed delight.

The recruits approached him as one. One by one, they kissed Voldemort's left hand and right boot. Draco blew Hermione a kiss as he stepped away. The knowing glint in his eye more than worried her. Blaise, Millicent, Theodore, and Morag did not spare the Mudblood pet any glance. Susan and Lisa's eyes flickered to her nervously. Both of them had encountered Hermione in all her Head Girl glory, and it was difficult to reconcile the proud Gryffindor with the humbled slave before them—her original authority still lingered in their memories. Susan, in particular, seemed shocked at Hermione's state. It was then Hermione saw the silver chain, the one Neville had given Susan the previous Christmas, and Hermione understood.

_No, Susan_, she pleaded silently. _Not for revenge. Not here. You're no match…_

After the recruits had fallen to one knee, Voldemort took the chalice from Hermione.

"_Signa morte_," Voldemort muttered with none of the ceremony used for the others.

"My Death Eaters," he said, "my children, you have proven to be the most loyal, the most zealous, the most focused, and the most powerful of my followers. As a reward, you are admitted into my inner circle, my circle of power, my own. Your body has been branded with my Mark, your flesh is my flesh. But the ritual is incomplete."

"Draco Malfoy," Lord Voldemort said. Draco stood, eyes downcast. "You have proved your loyalty. Now prove your devotion." He held the chalice under Draco's mouth. "Drink."

Draco looked at Hermione, winked, then put the cup to his lips and drank from the blood of the cup. Hermione trembled. She knew this ritual, and it frightened her. Voldemort was delving deep into blood magic, the Darkest kind, more potent than even life debts or blood baptism. Susan was trembling.

"Blaise Zabini. You have proved your loyalty. Now prove your devotion. Drink."

The chalice was passed down the line, and each recruit drank Lord Voldemort's blood.

He took the chalice back into his hands and drank the rest of it before setting it at the foot of the throne. He circled the new Death Eaters like a preying vulture.

"And so you are blood of my blood; your body is mine; your soul is mine; your life is mine. My Death Eaters. We have become one. I own you. However…"

The word trailed away, and the Death Eater recruits shifted nervously at the sudden, cold note in his speech.

Voldemort continued, "One of you whose life belongs to me by explicit consent denies me within her mind. She foolishly pretends to be my faithful follower and does not realize that I let her come this far to damn her—and we need a sacrifice of traitorous flesh." Voldemort halted behind Susan Bones and laughed in the shell of her ear. His dexterous fingers curled around the frame of her skull, dipping into her pretty red hair.

"And to think," he whispered, "all you've done to help those you love is for nothing but your eternal damnation. You even killed for me. Your family would be so disappointed."

Tears streamed down Susan's face.

"Good-bye, my child. Give my regards at the gates of hell."

"I'll see you there," Susan cried in one last attempt to rebel.

Voldemort only laughed. "I'd have to die first," he said smoothly. Then he snapped her neck with an effective, abrupt twist of her head. Susan crumbled to the ground.

"No," Hermione whimpered. She could just see Neville's heartbroken face. Neville…

Against all restrictions placed upon her, Hermione crawled forward. Draco kicked her and Voldemort stepped forward, raising his wand, but Hermione dove to Susan's wrist and unclasped the chain.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," Voldemort chanted easily. Hermione froze in her position on all fours. Voldemort reclaimed the chain and stared at it in the firelight. The make was simple with just a small heart charm, but Voldemort looked at it for a long while. Finally, he released Hermione from the spell.

"Sentimental value only," Voldemort said, throwing the chain to the ground at Hermione's hands. "You may keep it. Your punishment comes later."

The remainder of the Death Eater recruits smiled nastily.

Voldemort turned from Hermione and gestured to Susan's body. "Take her life's flesh and blood."

The Death Eater recruits did not even ask the Dark Lord how. They knelt to the ground and bit into Susan's skin like beasts, and they ate and drank her death.

When they finally broke away from the body, their mouths, chins, fingers, and robes were stained, and Hermione could not look at the remains of the sweet Hufflepuff she remembered. To her small credit, Lisa looked disgusted, but she said nothing and even laughed when Voldemort Levitated the corpse to the great bonfire and dropped it in.

"Welcome, my Death Eaters. You have been initiated and found worthy. Your loyalty, your life, is to none but me."

The new Death Eaters bowed one final time before donning their own haunting hoods and joining the senior members behind the throne. The circle expanded until it was complete. There was a surge of power concentrated in the Dark Lord, and he laughed until the power receded. The circle visibly relaxed.

"The ceremony is finished," Voldemort announced. "Cat's Paws, meet with your new members. Black Dogs, assemble and instruct your own. My Death Eaters and I will stay. Leave us."

The Cat's Paws and Black Dogs slowly shifted away, sauntering toward the woods where they could Disapparate without disturbing the Dark Lord.

The Death Eaters silently glided around so that they were facing Voldemort, awaiting what was coming next. They were edgy, and Hermione felt that although the official ceremony was complete, there was still something to be done.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Voldemort whirled around to face her, his demeanor like a cat with feathers in its mouth. A murmur of laughter rippled along the line of Death Eaters. She fought the desire to crawl back or curl into a quivering ball of fear. No one should look as pleased as Voldemort did at that moment.

"Well, my dear Hermione, you played your part beautifully with Severus, didn't she, my Death Eaters?" Voldemort began circling her, eyes half-lidded in barely-concealed pleasure. "And you were allowed to watch initiation rites Aurors would kill to see. You're really getting a taste of what the Dark Arts are and what I am. But have you tasted enough?"

Hermione stared at him. What was he trying to say? She had been kidnapped, tortured, raped, degraded, and neglected, and he was asking her if she had tasted enough?

"Yes, I know what you've been through, Hermione. But surely you don't believe that's all we can do. You see, the Death Eaters have a tradition for the new ones, something that will let _them_ have a taste of all they can do. MacNair, Bella, bring them to us."

At that moment, Hermione's heart and lungs constricted and her brain struggled to function. Surely he could not have… he just _couldn't_… they had not done anything…

She could not suppress the cry of pain as MacNair and Bellatrix brought forth the struggling, bound prisoners.

"No," she whispered. "No… please. _Please_, don't do this. They didn't… don't bring them into this… I'll do _anything_…"

Voldemort stroked Hermione's cheek tenderly. "You wouldn't begrudge my Death Eaters their bit of fun now, would you?"

Hermione threw herself at Voldemort's feet. She did not care how low she put herself. Tears made her face glistened, and she found it very difficult to breathe.

"_Please_, my lord, master, god, I don't care, just don't hurt them," she pleaded.

"Pity you don't have more parents," Voldemort said. "I could get used to this."

"Not them, take me…"

"It's obviously not enough that I have to threaten you with everything under the moon if you're wearing Miss Bones' bracelet."

Hermione clutched at the chain. "This isn't about the bracelet," she said, swallowing and choking on her fear.

"No," Voldemort agreed. "It's about your place."

Lucius Malfoy was the first to step forward, holding his son's shoulder. They glanced at each other through the mask before pulling back their hands and landing a blow on Mr. and Mrs. Granger's faces. Hermione screamed and lunged herself at her parents. Voldemort grabbed her arm, and, with a strength Hermione never could have guessed, pulled her back. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, trapping her arms and holding her tight.

"You said once," he whispered in her ear, "that you wanted to watch me squirm." Hermione struggled against him, but she could not break free. His voice seemed to echo in her head.

"Now, it's my turn."

Her parents were gagged, but it was clear that they were shouting her name.

"Mum, Dad, please…" Hermione cried. She writhed, her face twisted in a terrible, indescribable pain. Her chest was being ripped apart by demon claws, thrusting in, slashing and splitting.

"Kill them," Voldemort said to his Death Eaters. "Slowly."

The first curse, the Backbone Curse that left the victim crippled but not painless, was cast by Lisa Turpin, and all too soon the air glittered harshly with the spells of the Death Eaters.

"No!" Hermione screamed. She bit, she hit, she squeezed, she kicked, but Voldemort did not let her go. She clutched at the Dark Lord's robes and ripped at the fabric, clawed at the skin, but Voldemort managed to avoid most of her attempts. The clearing was filled with the shouts of curses, Hermione's screams, the Grangers' screams—even through the gags—and Voldemort's laughter that mingled with that of the Death Eaters.

Finally, Voldemort cried, "Enough!"

The Death Eaters stopped.

"Hold her," he ordered Crabbe and Goyle. They took her by the arms and gripped her like vises.

Voldemort walked calmly to the trembling bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Mr. Granger was collapsed, his mouth to the ground where he retched blood. His eyes were closed, but pus seeped down his nose. His fingers had sprouted claws, his back was hunched almost horizontal, and the stump of a leg had been cauterized. His heart had been Engorged and now stuck out his chest like a tumor, and his skin peeled away like rotted fruit to accommodate the enlarged organ as it struggled to pump blood like it always had.

Mrs. Granger was no better. Avery and Nott had largely been the ones to tag team her, but Bellatrix was responsible for some of the more extensive curses. Mrs. Granger's eyes were wide and blind. Her tongue had a chunk torn from it and eaten while the rest of the body sported neat, aligned holes through which her blood slowly oozed out.

Voldemort dipped his fingers into the pools of blood surrounding both Muggles. He held his bloodstained hands to the light, then returned to Hermione.

"Hold her tightly," Voldemort said. Crabbe and Goyle braced her.

Voldemort took his bloody fingers and held them in front of Hermione lips before plunging them into her mouth, making her gag, forcing her to swallow. Hermione bit down by instinct, and Voldemort's blood joined her parents' down her throat. Voldemort eased his fingers out from their plundering. Then he reached for his wand.

With a few deft flicks, the Grangers were dead.

Hermione strained one last time, then fell limp, depending on Crabbe and Goyle to keep her upright. Restraint had left her long ago. She did not care who heard her; she wailed, a moan that centered in a place where she never imagined she would be lost in. The faces of her parents… drowning in blood, blood that stained her mouth, her lips, blood that the Dark Lord was smearing on her shift to clean his hands.

Suddenly, he pointed the wand at her. "_Signa mortuto_."

Hermione's cries caught as the Dark Mark appeared on her arm. Hermione stared at the tattoo with mounting horror on top of the pain.

"Now, if you ever leave, escape, or I set you free," Voldemort said, "who do you think is going to take you in?"

Hermione's moans grew softer as they centered more and more inward.

"Let her go," Voldemort said. Crabbe and Goyle obeyed their master. Hermione fell forward, her face buried in her arms. Her legs twitched. Voldemort knelt down and stroked her hair gently with the same fingers he had thrust in her mouth. Hermione's head snapped up, and, snarling, she lunged at him, fists beating him. The Death Eaters moved in as one, but Voldemort held up a hand while fending off Hermione with the other. Finally, she stopped, with no warning at all. Just stopped. Voldemort held her wrists as a precaution.

"Lucius," said.

"Yes, my lord," Lucius replied.

Voldemort beckoned to him, the lifted Hermione's chin so that the Death Eater could see her face.

"This," Voldemort said, "is how I wanted her eyes when you gave her to me."

They were empty.

Severus Snape stormed into the Headmaster's office in a towering rage.

All the Order members had assembled; at least, all who could come on such short notice. Harry, Ron, and Ginny (who had recently been allowed as an honorary member because of her experiences with Tom Riddle) sat in front of the hearth fire, clad only in their pajamas. Lupin, Tonks, and Moody sat in the armchairs while the Weasleys stood somewhere between the two, pacing. Dumbledore reclined in the chair behind his desk, brooding with his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Even the portraits were silent. But everyone jumped at Snape's fiery entrance.

"The bitch," he shouted. "That bitch really has joined them! I saw her, and she was practically screwing Wormtail and Lucius right in front of everyone, she even gave Voldemort a kiss, and she _dared to call me the traitor_!"

Harry and Ron gaped. Ginny only bowed her head in resignation.

Lupin stammered. "But… no, Hermione's too smart for that. She wouldn't…"

"She damn well did, sticking her tongue down their throats, sticking her head under their robes…!"

"Hermione?" Mr. Weasley said, nonplussed. "I thought we had established she had been kidnapped, that they only wanted us to think she had…"

"The Dark Lord obviously thought that candor would have the best result!" Snape interrupted. "The Dark Lord Summoned me to flaunt that bloody bitch to my face—he was throwing her at us!" Snape suddenly let loose a string of curses that no parent would allow their children to even think.

Dumbledore stood quietly, grounding Snape's unrestrained fury. "Severus," he said. It was all he needed to say. Snape stilled, though he was panting like a winded rhinoceros, and there was a touch of color to his pale cheeks.

"I want you to tell me exactly what happened, exactly what you saw, and exactly what you heard. I want you to relax and set aside your present emotions, which I know you can do." Dumbledore looked at Snape over his half-moon glasses, letting his piercing blue stare pull the Potions Master back to his original persona. "Do you think you can give me that?"

Snape took a deep breath, let it out, then nodded.

Dumbledore sat down, and Snape began, starting from when he had left Dumbledore because of the summons. After Snape concluded his tale, Dumbledore, steepled his fingers and stared into the fire.

"It's a spell, Severus," Dumbledore said finally. "A form of Imperius. I am not surprised that Voldemort's experimenting in the Unforgivables."

"What makes you so sure, Headmaster?" Snape asked, clenching his teeth.

"For one thing, the entire set-up seems too conveniently staged for your benefit. You are here and basically unharmed. From how you described her appearance, I don't think Hermione's been treated well, especially if she is supposed to be a Death Eater recruit."

"And another reason?" Moody growled.

"Hermione's parents have been taken," Dumbledore replied.

Harry brought himself to his senses. "What?"

"There was a Dark Mark floating over their house earlier this evening. Mundungus was the one who noticed the cloaked figures, and he notified Kingsley." Dumbledore removed his glasses and began polishing them. "Ever since Hermione disappeared, I've been expecting something like this, so I put a watch on the Grangers. Kingsley searched the house. There were signs of struggle but no bodies. And I don't think that at this stage, Hermione would be willing to sacrifice her parents—and Mundungus did not see a cloaked figure of Hermione's stature."

"But the possibility's there," Ginny said.

"Yes," Dumbledore said solemnly, "but we are not positive on either case. And there is far more evidence of Hermione's imprisonment rather than Voldemort's willing servant. We still must continue to hope."

**Author notes:** 'Loyalty' and 'devotion.' The first requires discipline. The second requires love.


	13. Chapter 12

**Title:** Abyss (12)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 12**

As Hermione's eyelids drooped shut, a wad of spittle struck her cheek. She did not bother to brush it away or open her eyes to see who it was. Lisa Turpin, having become used to the idea, was now enjoying her daily visits to the throne room, one of the only rooms big enough for the Death Eater meetings and their activities. The Death Eaters would come before Voldemort's throne, bow before their Dark Lord, then resume their usual position in the circle. Lisa always took the time to spit on the shell of the former Head Girl. Oddly enough, Draco usually did not bother her.

Yes, she attended Death Eater meetings at the feet of Lord Voldemort. Sometimes Voldemort let her wear the shift; other time he made her take it off, but still, he did not keep her locked in the quarters all the time. With the Dark Mark burning black on her left arm, Voldemort let her join him like a trained puppy to the meetings. And to tell the truth, she did not care anymore. She did not care at all.

The murder of her parents and her perverse initiation did not rip her insides out. She still slept well. She was able to eat. Her eyes had no more tears. There was not emptiness so much as something had been shut off. She watched the Death Eaters—she heard all that they and Voldemort discussed, all the horrendous things they planned—but it meant nothing.

All she could think about were the blank, bloody faces of her parents, the smell of their burnt skin, the coppery, salty taste of their blood and Voldemort's blood on her tongue, the appearance of the Dark Mark… and then it stopped, and she would stare at one place for hours on end, then the cycle of the grotesque began running over and over once again like an ugly, broken, discordant song.

Voldemort was pleased with her. He would stroke her hair absent-mindedly during meetings and kiss her forehead with a particularly cruel smile when he was about to sleep, which was not often. Hermione had developed her own sleeping schedule—when she felt like sleeping, she would sleep. When she woke up, she would wait for her mind to fall asleep again.

She had lost all hope.

Until the day Hogwarts was attacked.

Ironically, the attack came on Valentine's Day. Couples were paired by the dozen in nooks, crannies, and the Astronomy Tower. Snape and Filch patrolled the corridors like ravenous wolves and twice as rabid.

Valentine's Day was traditionally a quiet night for the dark forces. The sticky sweetness of the holiday generally made them irritable and sick to their stomachs—or they felt compelled to participate as well. Dumbledore, Lupin, and Moody were on watch, but Tonks, Kingsley, Mundungus, and the Weasleys were at Grimmauld Place, taking a night's well-earned rest. Snape and Filch were more than enough to counter any of the hormone-driven time bombs.

What they did not expect was the Dementor-like vampirism the junior Death Eaters, Cat's Paws, and Black Dogs were wreaking across the castle in the guise of being very occupied. The Dark Lord's followers completely avoided detection until Snape caught Vincent Crabbe sucking deeply at Hannah Abbott's mouth. Crabbe panicked and pulled away before trying to barrel past his Head of House. Snape cast a Binding Charm that ensured Crabbe's paralysis. Then he knelt by Hannah and checked her pulse. Her breathing was shallow, and her pulse was weak, but it was better than nothing.

He scooped her up in his arms to take her to the hospital wing. Unfortunately, he met Draco along the way, who hexed him unconscious before finishing Crabbe's job and freeing his crony from Snape's spell. He shook his head sadly at his professor before arranging Hannah's dead body so that her legs straddled Snape's and a bared breast rested in his hand.

Pansy and Lavender really made the rounds after seducing the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw passwords from some gape-mouthed second-years that they left lying in front of the House entrances. Lavender walked through the boys' dormitories of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor naked but for the mask covering her face, sucking the life from any boy who happened to be awake at the time. Pansy did the same with Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Draco played his own game as he prowled through the halls looking for the same star-crossed lovers that Snape and Filch had been looking for. That is, Filch_ was_ looking until Lisa Turpin appeared in front of him in a negligee, a thong, and not much else. After his life was taken, Filch was then put into a very indecorous position with his cat, whose neck had been snapped.

And still Draco prowled. He would startle the hidden couples into freezing like rabbits in headlights, then bind them together with the Lip Locker curse. He would complete the cruel trick by including his lips with the other two and sucking life from both of them simultaneously.

Snape would later realize that this was a procedure that he himself had developed. All the life, all the power that the young followers consumed would be transferred into a cauldron of a potion boiling in the center of a circle split with a pentagram. Whoever drank the potion would be imbued with the life force, strength, and magic of those who died for it. It was Dark Arts at its finest, and it was the turning point of the Inner House Wars.

Ron was sitting up in bed, his curtains drawn and his pajamas on. He could not stop thinking about Hermione. Last year, on this very day, he and Hermione had shared their first kiss. Of course, they were a little drunk, and they pulled away, spitting and wiping their mouths, but still… Hermione was _there_. And where was she now?

_Probably being tortured for the five hundredth time_, he thought glumly, resting his chin on his knees.

"Ron," someone whispered. Ron's head jerked up. It almost sounded like…

"Hermione?" Ron called out.

The curtains opened a smidgeon, and a form climbed through. "Shh," it hushed quietly.

"Hermione?" he repeated.

"Shh," she whispered. "It'll be all right, Ron."

Her hand reached out and took his. Their fingers intertwined.

"Hermione, we were so worried…" he whispered. A finger touched her lips.

"Shh." The whisper was close now, right in front of his face. "Have I ever told you that I love you?"

And she brought his hand to her naked breast, rubbed her nipple with it.

"Hermione?" His voice cracked as his entire body tensed at the feel of her feminine skin. She kissed him gently, then pulled down his legs so she could climb on top of him.

"Haven't you wanted this?" she whispered into his ear before licking along the edge.

"I…" he squeaked. Once again, her lips captured his, but this time, they did not pull back, and Lavender began sucking the life out of him. Ron's eyes shot open, and he began struggling, but Lavender's limbs gripped him tight.

Suddenly, the curtains flew open and a voice shouted, "_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

It was the only way Harry could think of to get her off of him, but Lavender pulled him up with her, holding onto him with all her strength. Harry ran to Ron and pulled him away, but still Lavender would not leg go of his mouth. Harry let out a yell, waking the other boys in the dormitory except Seamus, who had been visited by Lavender already.

Dean rubbed his eyes sleepily, but at the sight of Lavender's naked body, he woke right up, springing from his bed and pulling at Lavender's hair. She squealed against Ron's mouth. Ron's face was going pale and his eyelids drooped.

"_Stupefy!_" came a commanding voice from the other side of the bed. Lavender slumped where she floated. Harry grabbed Ron as he fell to the bed, gasping for breath, lips colorless and eyes glazed.

Neville stood there in his boyish pajamas and round face, chin set and countenance grim. He looked at Harry and said, "Lavender won't be the only one."

Harry blinked at this authoritative Neville, then nodded. "Dean, watch Ron. Don't take him to the infirmary. I get a feeling it's not safe right now. My scar is tingling. Voldemort's probably not here, but his followers are… probably active. Neville..." Harry paused, observing the stoic resolve in the boy's face. "Do you think that you can handle Gryffindor Tower? I'm going to fly to the Headmaster's tower and warn him."

"Then?" Dean asked.

"Then I'm going to kick some arse, of course. What do you think we've been learning for the past two and a half years?" Harry ran to his trunk and retrieved his Firebolt and Invisibility Cloak. "If Lavender even twitches, hit her again with Stupefy. Or worse. I really don't care."

"They got Seamus," Neville said.

Harry threw the cloak over himself and fastened the clasp. "Then you have to make sure they don't get anyone else. For Hogwarts."

The alarm had been sounded, and the castle was chaos. Draco hid in a corridor and discreetly called for a retreat. The Death Eaters, Cat's Paws, and Black Dogs began to leave, fleeing for the dark forest. Draco knew that some of Voldemort's followers were captured. He had watched Millicent fall down the stairs after Ginny Weasley performed a Boggart Curse. But Voldemort had a great number of life forces writhing in the cauldron and more than a few hostages of his own by now.

After after making sure that Voldemort's followers were in the forests—those who could, anyway—he hid undercover of the chaos, keeping his head down, maneuvering through the rush of frightened children.

A fist connected squarely with Draco's jaw. His head flew back and he stumbled.

Harry's voice said, "That _does_ feel good."

"Potter," Draco said, rubbing his chin and looking around for his enemy.

This time a solid kick planted itself into Draco's stomach.

"You know what?" Harry said. "I really don't like you."

"Why don't you fight me face-to-face like a Gryffindor?" Draco gasped. "I thought you wanted a fair fight."

"Because you fight like a Slytherin." Harry punched him on the side of his face. "And since Slytherins cheat, it's a fair fight if we don't fight fair."

"That's Slytherin logic there, Potter," Draco said, still gasping for air. But his face twisted into a ghastly smile.

"Give me a reason to hurt you _really_ badly, because I can't kill you," Harry said. He kicked Draco in the shoulder, and Draco lost his balance. He fell to the floor onto his side.

"Your Mudblood sends her love," Draco sneered.

Draco pointed his wand where a strangled cry was building. "_Expelliarmus!_" Draco shouted.

A wand appeared in midair and flew to Draco's hand while Harry stumbled back from the force of the spell. His heel caught in the cloak, and it pulled half off of him. Draco pointed his wand at the invisible remains.

"_Accio_ cloak!"

The Invisibility Cloak flew from Harry completely and draped over Draco's arm. Harry lunged at Draco for his wand and knocked Draco onto his back. Draco managed a Redactor Charm that pushed Harry's legs upward, but Harry had a good grip on Draco's rubes.

"She writhes so well, Potter," Draco hissed as Harry fumbled for his wand. "Her legs wrap around you so tight… I wouldn't be surprised if she laid the entire Gryffindor Tower. After all, don't Head Girls have their own rooms? Have you ever been invited, Potter?"

"Shut up!" Harry screamed, forgetting about his wand altogether and pummeling Draco's face. "Where _is_ she? Where did you take her?"

Draco nearly vomited as he choked on one of his own teeth, but he dealt a solid blow to Harry's stomach. Harry doubled over in pain and grabbed his wand and cloak through the stars in his eyes. He managed to knee Draco in the groin before Draco hexed him away. A patch of warts was growing on his nose.

"Thank the gods I didn't point at your eyes, Potter," Draco managed through gritted teeth. "But I really have to go. I have a date with a Mudblood."

He staggered away.

Harry was about to go after him, oblivious to the tears on his cheeks, when he heard a scream behind him. Shaking with frustration, Harry whirled around to help whoever it was that screamed.

That was how he found Professor Snape.

Draco was the last to Apparate back to the fortress. He sauntered through the ranks, mindful of his bloodied face but bound to pay his due to the Dark Lord first. He grinned at Hermione as he bowed before his lord. Hermione's eyes glowed lucidly, which meant that she was temporarily back in reality.

Voldemort bid him rise. Draco forced himself to not blink as Voldemort stared at him with his unnervingly serpentine eyes. Finally, the Dark Lord gave a grim smile.

"You have done well, Draco, played on your rivalry, and still managed to leave the Potter boy for me." Voldemort let his fingers slide against Draco's blood-dripped chin. He brought his fingers to the lips of Hermione and pressed the blood into her mouth. She knew not to resist.

When he felt her mouth had been violated enough, Voldemort removed his fingers and took his wand in hand. With a few words, Draco's face had healed to its original state. Draco bowed again in gratitude, then walked back into the ranks. He felt no shame for the blood still staining his face. Lucius, who stood next to him, put a hand on his shoulder in pride.

"How many have we lost?" Voldemort called out to his returned followers. It turned out that only Millicent, Lavender, and a young Slytherin had been left behind: a Death Eater and two Cat's Paws. Voldemort did not spend too much time mourning their loss. Their initiation into the field of duty led to their demise—they were unworthy. But he had what he wanted.

He got to his feet, approaching the cauldron with a half-smile on his face. His hand grasped the apple wood spoon gently, and he stirred forty times in a counterclockwise motion before summoning an old Black Dog named Leonard Reuben to bottle the resulting potion for him and his Death Eaters. Reuben bowed and Levitated the cauldron to the laboratory.

As Voldemort turned to return to his seat, he snapped his fingers. "Bring your leftovers," he commanded imperiously, and just as he sat back down, his Black Dogs and Cat's Paws dispersed. The elder Crabbe and Goyle threw five bound Hogwarts students to the center of the Death Eater circle.

Hermione stiffened, mind all too clear. Padma and Parvati Patil were in the front, and Terry Boot toppled over them. They were closely followed by Harriet Bolger, a Hufflepuff first-year, and Darla Ferris, a second-year Ravenclaw. The twins were gagged as well, but although their faces were painted with fear, their eyes flashed in anger.

Hermione stood, her weakened limbs shaking. When the five saw her, their eyes widened. Harriet and Darla ran to her and threw themselves to the Head Girl. Hermione let them huddle close and put her arms around them, but stared at the twins and Terry. But not before the Dark Mark on her arm flashed at them. Quietly, she shook her head against the looks of hurt and betrayal they were giving her. Tears trailed sluggishly down her cheeks.

"Hello, children," Voldemort said. Harriet and Darla squeaked and ran back to the seventh years. Voldemort curved his lips in an awful smile. "We are honored by the presence of some of the original members of Dumbledore's Army. My Death Eaters, show them _proper_ respect."

The Death Eaters laughed and sent mild spells in short painful bursts. The children did well. The third year of the DA, Hermione and Harry had reluctantly told them they would have to experience at least some of the milder curses to learn how to handle the pain, if not resist it. Padma and Terry shut their eyes.

"_Crucio_," Voldemort added, almost lazily.

Terry screamed. His eyes flew open and rolled around in his head as he jerked and twitched on the floor. Hermione tensed when those eyes seemed to look on hers. She sat down next to Voldemort's throne, grasping the stair. The four others stared at Terry with their horror clearly etched on their faces. The two youngest crawled to Padma and Parvati, mouths gaping in fear-inspired awe, but then they flung themselves at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord smiled, which made Darla and Harriet falter just long enough for Avery and Nott to step forward.

"Time to play," Avery said, twisting a hand into Darla's hair.

Hermione half-stood. "No," she whispered.

One look from Voldemort made her sit back down. But then she said more loudly, "You're sick."

Avery smirked salaciously at Hermione. "Of course. That's why the Dark Lord gives us the expendable ones. There are an awful lot of them."

Hermione tried to ignore the reminder. "They're _children_."

"They scream louder. And they taste better," Nott said. Harriet yelped, and she began struggling in earnest as Nott pulled her out the room. Avery followed, saluting Hermione mockingly. Hermione wanted to forget the sound of Darla's screams.

Hermione only had time to register that Terry's screams had stopped before Voldemort backhanded her. She twisted around with the force of the blow and braced her fall by clinging to the throne arm.

"And you were doing so well," he said.

She made sure Terry was all right before she turned her attention back to Voldemort. Only to find his wand in her face.

"_Sanguinante_," Voldemort murmured. "_Tractuminus_."

The sound that came out of Hermione's mouth was an unrestrained, unmitigated expression of pain that cannot even be called a scream. The Bloodbath Curse was only effective because of the integration of the Hemorrhage Curse. Her raging, boiling blood strained against its thin confines, erupting in small bruises across her body.

Hermione did not know how long Voldemort kept her under the curse, but she was black and blue and sore all inside. Small hemorrhages threatened to hurt her in a more permanent way, but Voldemort quickly cast an all-purpose Healing Charm that did away with most of the damage. The rest was cured by a potion that Rabastan brought him. The man was an adequate potions maker and was the only Death Eater besides Voldemort himself who understood a few of the codes and riddles left behind in Snape's abandoned laboratory.

"I repeat," Voldemort said slowly, "you were doing so well."

For the first time since the initiation, Hermione's eyes looked directly with Voldemort's.

"You said it yourself," Hermione replied, "I only had two parents. And you already killed them."

Voldemort was silent, staring at Hermione, a fully lucid and functional Hermione. He clenched his teeth in frustration.

"True," he said tightly.

But then he turned his head and pointed his wand at Terry. "_Stupefy_." Terry slumped to the floor, open eyes glazed and accusing.

"But you still have plenty of friends," Voldemort concluded. "Bella, Rodolphus, MacNair."

The Death Eaters broke from the circle and stood before their lord.

"Take the girls and extract all the information you can from them. Can you make it quick?"

The three, renowned for their torture techniques, shared looked of glee before assenting.

"Don't kill them. Draco…" The young Death Eater gave Voldemort a grin. "You kill them. Their power is necessary before we drink the potion."

Hermione flinched as she watched Padma and Parvati being dragged by their beautiful hair out of the throne room. She almost ran after them, but Voldemort jabbed his wand back at Terry in a warning.

"What do you even _care _anymore?" Hermione asked despairingly. "Why do you preoccupy yourself with keeping me… like this? Why don't you just kill me and be done with it?"

"And lose the thrill of a challenge finally worthy of Lord Voldemort?" the Dark Lord said. "No, as annoyingly resilient as you are, you still have your uses. _Enervate_."

Terry blinked, conscious again. He struggled to his knees.

"Stay here," Voldemort ordered her. Just to make sure, he spell-shackled her to the throne, then approached Terry.

"Well," he murmured as he circled the boy, "let's see what is in your head. _Legilimens_."

Pictures flooded Voldemort's head, a virtual flood with the boy's stress levels. It took the Dark Lord little effort to establish a good grip on the slippery nuances of Terry's thoughts. He focused the slew of memories on the DA.

Then he paused. Something from the near beginning. The Room of Requirement. That would be useful for future followers as well as an asset during an attack. But something else was there. A presence and an emotion. Admiration? For whom?

"Hermione," Voldemort whispered. He solidified the specific memory and watched it play, taking note of how the boy felt and what he saw.

He withdrew and raised an eyebrow at Hermione's bound form. "Clever, the spell on the Galleons. A variation on my Signa Separate spell, I assume."

Hermione nodded.

"Interesting," Voldemort mused before returning to the memory. On a whim, he categorized Terry's memories according to his thoughts about Hermione. He sensed Terry fight back and smiled inwardly as he saw why. Naughty Terry sneaked into the prefect girls' bath and watched Hermione undress—an event that caused an astonishing spurt of erotic fantasies. And a few dates that led absolutely nowhere. A simple schoolboy crush.

"Fond of her, were you?" Voldemort muttered, finally disengaging himself fully from the adolescent mind. Terry was blushing after having to relive his most private and personal moments and thoughts, knowing that the Dark Lord had access to them. "And was she fond of you?"

"Yes, I was," Hermione answered for Terry. "But not that kind of 'fond.' Which was why we broke up." She knew what Voldemort had found—at least, she thought she did.

"Why you broke up with him," Voldemort corrected. "But nonetheless, you _are _fond of him… even now."

"You're going to kill him anyway," Hermione said. She tried to reassure Terry with her eyes. "We talked about that in the DA."

"Martyrdom's poetic," Voldemort sneered, "but he'll be dead nonetheless. Or will he be?" He whipped around, taking the boy's chin in his hand. "Tell me, boy, are you afraid to die?"

Terry nodded. The overwhelming shock at seeing Voldemort's strangeness so close made him dizzy as his head moved.

Voldemort released the boy's face and straightened. "Thank you for your useful bits of information, but sadly, I don't need you anymore; the potion will have reached its limit after the girls' power is taken, and my other Death Eaters need a little sport. Wormtail, do you feel like you can do something with _this_ one?"

Wormtail looked up, mask off and bewildered, but also resigned.

"No, my lord," he said. "I don't think so."

The Dark Lord stiffened, white face turning to stone.

"This is the fifth opportunity you have turned down, Wormtail. I told you that your work was to improve."

"I've slit the throats of some of the prisoners, my lord," Wormtail replied, head bowed.

"Hardly an improvement," Voldemort said, stepping toward Wormtail. The movement was not human—it was almost as if his upper body worked independently of his lower body. He seemed to glide across the floor.

"Wormtail always had a weak stomach," Tanner sneered. "Never played our Death Eater games properly, now, did he?"

"He's not even worth calling a Death Eater," Lucius added. "He doesn't do anything."

"Is conditioning in order?" Voldemort continued, as though he had not heard the others.

"No, no, please," Wormtail begged, eyes widening when he realized what he had started.

"I don't think that will work," Lucius said coolly. "He's gone through it twice already, the poor excuse for a wizard. If he hadn't have given you Potter and his wife, he never would have even made Black Dog."

Voldemort fingered his wand as he came ever nearer to the cowering Wormtail.

"You have to learn," Voldemort said, "that it takes more than breaking Fidelius to be a Death Eater. I think it's high time you really knew." He raised his wand and lazily cast Cruciatus.

Hermione jerked against her chains at the high-pitched sound of Wormtail's torture. He sounded like a rat caught in barbed wire.

Wormtail gasped for breath against the rasp of nails in his lungs when the spell was lifted.

O'Reilly, a young jinx-healer from St. Mungo's, laughed and threw a curse at Wormtail's quivering form. Morag MacDougal followed suit, and soon all attention had turned from Terry to the pitiful rat, a grown man quivering from the antagonism and curses and self-loathing.

"Enough," Voldemort finally said, the ghost of a smile shifting his face into something nearly hideous. "Now, Wormtail, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Wormtail wiped his robes across his eyes and under his nose before pushing his shaking self to his knees.

"Bastards," he whispered. And suddenly the entire throne room was utterly silent.

"What… did you say?" Voldemort said. A smarter man would have quelled beneath the furnace of his glare.

Wormtail, however, stared straight into his master's face.

"I said '_bastards,_'" Wormtail repeated. His round, weak face was set. "I _did_ get you to the Potters, which is more than anyone else could have done. I handed their boy to you on a silver platter. Maybe that was truly all I was good for, even among my friends. I was the unlikely one; no one would guess poor Peter, whose Animagus was a filthy _rat_, was entrusted with something as great as the Fidelius."

Wormtail looked down where his hands were fidgeting. "I gave up everything I ever wanted for you, my lord. Even as pathetic as I was and am, I could have been happy just trailing in my friends' shadows. But I chose you. Then you… disappeared. I knew Sirius would come after me, and then _I_ had to disappear. I had to be someone's useless pet until my old friends found me again. So what if I had been hiding. None of you did any better, claiming you were under Imperius or paying off Ministry officials or giving names.

"And I then I found our master." Wormtail's gaze returned to Voldemort. "Yes, I was cowardly. I stumbled across you, and I was afraid. But I could have killed the snake you possessed. I could have run. I could have killed myself. And I didn't, which again is more than most of your Death Eaters would have done.

"I nursed you back to health, brewed the potion to give you physical form, brought you Bertha Jorkins, _sliced off my hand_ for your body. Sat there while you gloated before the Potter boy before you gave me this hand." He held it in front of his face, watching the play of light. "It is a beautiful hand, my lord. For a moment, I thought I had some sort of value in your eyes.

"My lord, I was not made to torture. Yes, I have a weak stomach and no backbone. I can't watch while they yell and plead, I can't watch them bleeding, I can't think of any spells to contribute to the play…

"I'm incompetent. I'm talentless. I don't know too much. I can't do more than half of the things you ask me to do… But I have been useful. I _can_ transfigure. I _am_ an Animagus. I _could_ spy, network with the other rats, _use_ this awful animal I become. And before _any_ of you laugh at me again, remember that _I'm_ the one with the silver hand."

Wormtail closed his mouth, cradling his stronger hand near his stomach. The spark of confidence that sustained him during his monologue flickered and died.

"Well," Voldemort said slowly. Wormtail flinched. The silence continued, suffocating, tightening, like steel.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by a sharp crack that echoed in the ears of all in the throne room. Another crack, and another, until everyone realized that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was clapping. A murmur sprang to complement the sharpness of the applause.

"My lord?" Lucius asked. Voldemort's face was so unreadable that he could not tell whether his master was mocking or serious.

"And I thought that the Sorting Hat misplaced you," Voldemort said. "It took you twenty five years to show it. And it's about time." Voldemort smiled. "I thought you would be meek and boring and inept for the rest of your service. I'm glad that in this case, I was wrong. After all, I'm not a Seer, and I'm bound to make one mistake."

The Death Eaters were stunned.

"Only the Death Eaters who underwent thirteen years in Azkaban or died in my good graces would have done what Wormtail did. He bumbled through, but he did it nonetheless, even though he despised and despises me. That even I know, Wormtail."

Wormtail's fear-filled countenance appealed silently to the Dark Lord.

"Well done," Voldemort said.

Getting to his feet, Wormtail's eyes widened at the praise. He looked as though he could not believe that the words had come from his master's mouth. Where were the curses for insubordination? Where was conditioning?

Voldemort pointed his wand not at Wormtail, but at Hermione. He unlatched the chain from the throne and set Imperius.

"Come here, Hermione," Voldemort murmured. His fingers closed around the end of the chain.

Then he handed the chain to Wormtail, lifting Imperius. Hermione pulled against the man who now held her, but his silver hand held her fast.

"My other Death Eaters will deal with the boy. I've been waiting for you to protest, waiting for you to finally prove your title as my Death Eater." Voldemort stroked Hermione's hair. "And now you have. Just don't underestimate her, and you can enjoy her for the next thirty hours. At the end of those thirty hours, you will bring her to me in my chambers, and I will give you your portion of the Sanguinarian Strengthening Solution. I hope that's not difficult for you. After all, Lord Voldemort rewards those who are faithful to him."

Voldemort's grip on Hermione's hair tightened, tugging at the base of the strands near her neck. It was not painful, but it made Voldemort's presence invasive to the edge of her mind.

"Your punishment and Wormtail's reward. And don't worry. Your boy's death will be relatively quick… compared to what is happening up here." His fingers massaged the back of her head as emphasis. Then he released her to Wormtail's whim.

"Have a lovely night," Voldemort said to Hermione as Wormtail led her backward by the chain out of the room.


	14. Chapter 13

**Title:** Abyss (13)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 13**

"Drink this, Severus," Dumbledore said, handing Snape a mug.

"Tell me it's not hot chocolate," he murmured, not even bothering to sniff at the brew before taking a deep swallow. It was only his experience with some of the most distasteful potions that allowed him to swallow without spitting it all over the Headmaster.

"It's coffee. Black. You need something strong to deal with this," Lupin said. "Drink all of it."

"Paying me back for all those years of Wolfsbane, are you?" Snape groused.

Lupin forced a small smile, but he was nonetheless recovering from the shock of the depletion of Hogwarts students as well as the state in which Snape had been after they had pulled off Hannah Abbott and told him what had happened. Of course, Potter had found him, and the arrangement had frightened two young Ravenclaws into near catatonia at the acknowledgement of Snape's basic masculinity, both of which were a blow to his ego.

But the look on Snape's face when he was told the sheer numbers of the dead… amazingly high in proportion to the number of attackers. The juvenile Death Eaters had disappeared completely, their school possessions cleared from their respective Houses. It was after the statistical report Lupin gave him that Snape's traditional, menacing mask had shattered and a jagged edge of fearful knowledge struck his countenance. He grabbed Lupin's robes and began asking the man nearly incomprehensible questions. The prospect of a babbling Snape shook Lupin to his inner core. Snape was such a controlled person that when he lost control, as he had been doing of late, the result was more than terrifying. It had the capability to make even Harry doubt the optimism of the prospective war outcome. An unhinging Snape did not bode well for the solidarity of the Order, regardless of how most members felt about him.

Dumbledore looked out over the Great Hall, observing the small sea of children huddled in their sleeping bags and talking as loudly as they liked. There was not going to be much order that night, and Dumbledore knew better than to expect it. The faces of the children… all scared, all gathered together, groups of young Slytherins lying on the ground and talking with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Young Hufflepuffs integrated themselves with the fifth- and sixth-year Slytherins. Among the seventh-years, lines were still divided—after all, their generation was the one that primarily turned traitor on the school.

"It is a terrible thing that it takes a disaster this close to home to bring these remarkable children together," Dumbledore muttered.

"It won't last for long," interjected the realistic, pessimistic, sarcastic Slytherin. "Most of the new Death Eaters and other followers of the Dark Lord are from my House. You'll see an influx of anti-Slytherin antagonism. Not least when they hear the Head of Slytherin House invented the bloody potion that let this happen."

"If not your potion, Severus, Voldemort would have found some other way of attacking Hogwarts," Dumbledore said.

"And don't think that those initiated this year are the only ones who follow the Dark Lord in this school," Snape continued without acknowledging Dumbledore's reassurance. "I can think of a few right now who would fit the profile."

"Severus," Dumbledore said sharply.

Snape stopped talking and downed the last of the coffee.

"You can't fix everything," the Headmaster said, surreptitiously placing a hand on Snape's shoulder, mindful of the Potions Master's reputation he wanted to maintain in front of his students. "You have the misfortune of leading a House whose children have been branded with certain expectations. If anyone mentions evil Slytherins or abuses them for their House loyalties, mention other Houses' contribution to the dark forces."

"Like Miss Granger?" Snape replied snidely.

"Innocent until _proven_ guilty," Dumbledore snapped, removing his hand.

"What do you want, a Dark Mark on her arm and a hexed corpse at her feet?" Snape sneered. "She delved into Dark Arts, and it's nearly impossible to escape once you're in."

"Not everyone is like you, Severus," Lupin said.

"That was uncalled for, Remus," Dumbledore said.

"You just don't want to admit your pet Head Girl may turn out like I did," Snape shot at Lupin.

"You, too, Severus," Dumbledore said.

Lupin and Snape glared at each other, but they did not retort.

"Innocent until proven guilty," Dumbledore repeated.

"Professor, is Ron okay?" Harry asked, stepping into the small circle.

"Ron will be fine after a night in the infirmary with an Energizing Elixir," Lupin replied. "But I don't recommend you go see him right now. Best you stay here until Hogwarts has been thoroughly searched and protected."

Harry rubbed his nose, now free of warts, then his scar.

"Nothing's right without Hermione," Harry said.

Lupin elbowed Snape as he said, "You're right. But we'll get her back."

"If she were still here, she probably would have noticed _something_, even if she didn't put it together right away." Harry shook his head. "It's hard to think without Hermione bouncing ideas around."

"Maybe it's time you learned to think for yourself, Potter," Snape snapped. "Why don't you take something out of Miss Granger's absence and think independently?"

"I'm trying," Harry responded angrily. "I'm better at action. It's harder when there's no direct confrontation."

Snape snorted. "You'd better work harder. The Dark Lord is more subtle than direct confrontation. He will purposefully use more cunning means to confuse your Gryffindor mind."

"Yeah, well, I'm still alive, aren't I?" Harry said.

Snape opened his mouth, no doubt to explain exactly why he was still alive, all the sacrifices that had been made for famous Harry Potter's safety, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"Try to go to sleep tonight, Harry," Dumbledore said gravely. "And if you dream…"

"I know, tell you." Harry sighed and picked his way through the crowd back to his sleeping bag.

"Snape watched him leave with a grim smirk on his lips. "The world is doomed," he murmured.

"Thank you for the maudlin announcement, Severus," Lupin said.

"Even I knew the dream team rested on Miss Granger's shoulders."

"Not all of what Harry has accomplished is the result of someone else's efforts."

"But a damn good lot of it is," Snape muttered, pouring himself another mug of vile coffee. "And now part of it has turned to the wrong side."

"Hermione is a good girl," Lupin said firmly. "She's lying in the midst of the enemy, but nothing short of death would break her. Or turn her."

888

The room was dark, just a simple candelabrum glimmering in a corner on the other side of the room. The covers were drawn up to their shoulders, holding in the warmth. There was a pillow between them, at Wormtail's permission, but his arms were wrapped around her, sheathing her in the warmth and blind security of human skin. One leg was curled possessively around hers. He was not the best-made man, but his chest was soft under her head, and his touch was gentle.

The shift from the first time was subtle. The feelings of disgust had dried with his seed. He said he did not want to hurt her, and she could close her eyes and pretend he was someone else. She did close her eyes, but she did not pretend. She took his invasion but took no pleasure in it. Her pity for him was submerged in a burning sun of what could be called hate that, in turn, was swept away with her own repetitive, overwhelming despair. In spite of his self-loathing and still strong desire, he held Hermione while she dryly cried. She accepted the little-offered comfort, burying her face in his shoulder. A hero he was not, but it did not matter that what he was really interested in at the moment was the hot flesh against her thigh. He stroked her hair with something that was not domination.

He tried to kiss her, but she turned away.

"Why won't you let me help you forget?" Wormtail had said. "I've heard it can be comforting."

"I've been called a Mudblood whore, or slut, or bitch, but I would never forgive myself if I lived up to their expectations." Hermione reached for the pillow and put it between them then, and Wormtail did not protest.

They had fallen asleep like that, and Hermione finally slept through a night when she did not dream about her parents' death.

She woke up to his lips against her neck. The pillow was set aside. Hermione clutched at the bed sheets and held on tightly. When Wormtail had spent himself, he slumped against her body, smearing her with his thin layer of sweat.

"I really wish you enjoyed it," Wormtail muttered breathlessly next to her ear. "It doesn't seem right to just take."

There, underneath a Death Eater as a reward—like a thing, a possession, less than human—something inside of her split, erupted angrily. She pushed Wormtail off of her, then climbed on top, straddling his stomach.

"You're right," she snapped. "It isn't right. Maybe it's time for _me_ to take for once."

She plunged her tongue into his mouth, bit, grasped, clawed all over his body, torturing, then teasing him, rubbing against him, playing with his pain and pleasure until he was a wriggling mass of nerve endings, and he lost control inside of her. Although she took no pleasure again, she felt grimly better because, for once, she had power.

She gave him thirty minutes rest before she took control again.

---

She was naked as she stood in front of Voldemort's chambers with Wormtail. Her shift had been gently removed from her body at the beginning of the thirty hours, but just thirty minutes ago, Wormtail had ripped it off in a frenzy after she had manipulated his passions once again. She had a few bruises where his silver hand had inadvertently clenched at her skin, but other than that, she was fine. More than fine. She felt shame and disgust for what she had done, but also a dark exhilaration that she could not quell. Her body and teeth ached, and her tongue still tasted of him, but she also tasted victory. Even now, Wormtail was behind her, although he held the chains. He let her lead even when he had the potential for the power.

She raised a hand to knock, but Wormtail slid his fingers through hers and pulled her hand away. He guided her against him and kissed her, a tender conclusion to what had been a rough-and-tumble day. Hermione let his mouth move over hers. Hermione felt she finally had an ally among Death Eaters, no matter what it had taken to achieve it—it was darkly satisfying.

When Wormtial pulled back, he sighed. "You still don't feel…"

"No," Hermione answered. "But I felt enough." She molded her face into a forced sincere smile for his benefit. "Thank you."

He knocked on the Dark Lord's door.

The door opened on its own, and a vial of potion hovered just out of reach.

"Let Hermione in, and you can have the potion," the Dark Lord's voice hissed from behind the door.

"Hmmm," Wormtail said softly. "Awfully tempting to just walk away."

"It's not a choice," the Dark Lord said. There was a touch of amusement there.

"Pity," Wormtail mumbled. He put a hand to the small of her back and pushed her in. The vial floated to Wormtail, and the door shut, revealing a rather serene Dark Lord.

"I should ask who was punished and who was rewarded," he said, his tone adjusting back to its usual clarity.

"What happened to…" she began, ignoring the insinuation.

"Oh, they're dead. No less than you expected or even hoped for." He stood away from the wall. There was an aura of renewed strength and collected vigor. His eyes glowed with self-satisfaction.

"The potion worked," Hermione said.

"I don't doubt Severus' abilities when he thinks that we won't discover the concoctions he makes on his own, and the potion has been practiced on a smaller scale. But this time… it's like eating lightning." He crooked his finger and led her to the foot of the bed.

"So, you're back." The words held deeper significance as he shared a glance with her. He took out his wand and pointed it at her wrists and ankles, slowly, knowing that at any moment she was going to…

Before he spoke the spell to bind her to the bed again, she knelt down at his feet.

"An hour," she said quickly. "In the bath. Please."

Voldemort smiled, his eyes slitting at her submission. "Feel a bit dark and dirty, do you?"

She was staring up at him. She did not say a word.

"How convenient that you are obedient again when you desperately want something from me," Voldemort continued, circling her. "It's a very Slytherin tactic."

"The Sorting Hat didn't even mention Slytherin to me," Hermione said.

"Then you must have been annoyingly innocent as a child."

"Anyone with any ounce of sense knows that sometimes the Slytherins do things the right way," Hermione muttered.

"There are an awful lot of senseless people in the world." He knelt down. "I have a few choices with what I can do to you. I can do as I have been doing: punishing you when you need punishing, indulging you when you're good." His hand settled in her hair; his fingers curled in the locks and ran through them in a gesture both pseudo-affectionate and dominating. "Another option is to punish you all the time, or indulge you all the time, which has its merits. Or I could alternate randomly between them so that you never know what to expect—that is an intriguing idea."

Hermione dared to look him in the eyes. "Indulge me, my lord."

Voldemort hid a smile. He stood up and gestured to the door where the bath was. "Go ahead," he hissed. "Wash Wormtail's sweat from your skin. Wash the sweat that you coaxed from him off. Tell yourself that you can't be that girl. Tell yourself that Wormtail needed that sort of experience. But it won't change how you intentionally aroused him, intentionally let him inside you, intentionally took advantage of him. Have your bath. But remember, Hermione, some stains will never leave your skin." His fingers brushed against the Dark Mark stark against her pale skin. "You're beginning to earn it, little one."

Hermione was shaking, but she lowered her eyelids for the purpose of hiding her shame and acting submissive.

"You have my permission."

She wrapped her arms around herself and got to her feet, still shaking as she went into the bathroom. She leaned against the door to calm her nerves.

Hermione remembered innocence, but it seemed so long ago. She remembered when she rolled her eyes at Ron's impulsive crushes and when she had to calm Harry down after some new indignity that he did not deserve. She remembered when the N.E.W.T.s were important to her. She remembered the vast difference, yet fulfillment, between Christmases at home and those at Hogwarts. But thinking of those memories now was like looking at snow on the television.

Voldemort's bath was not quite the ostentatious display of the prefect baths. It was more along the elegant lines of the baths in the Head Girl and Head Boy chambers. The gold and marble was understated, not the romantic or rococo extravagance of Malfoy's. It was practical while suffused with the sensuality of luxury.

Hermione was startled to find a warm bath already drawn and the appropriate potions lined on the edge. She looked back at the closed doors through which lay the Dark Lord's bedchamber. But she did not question him and stepped into the water, laid her head back, and closed her eyes. The warmth surrounded her, covered her with tactile sensations detached from sex, shut away her thoughts of his hands—there was only the movement of the water over her skin.

The time whiled away, and slowly something built behind her eyes, a dense knot of tension that melted down her cheeks and shook her frame in long-delayed release. Her restraint crumbled under the knowledge of solitude and under the flight of reason. Her lonely cries echoed mutedly against the walls.

Thin fingers brushed gently against her cheeks, dribbling the warm bath water over her flushed face so that the purity mingled with the salt of her tears. Voldemort did not say anything while she cried, but stroked her face against her onslaught of feelings before leaning her face against his knee. Like she had done with Wormtail, she took the modicum of comfort offered to her until she wracked with dry sobs and became too tired to continue.

"It is a difficult thing," Voldemort murmured, "to endure the cruelties of a man. It is a different matter to endure the cruelties of yourself."

Hermione lifted her head and looked at where she had laid it. Then she dipped her head under the water, isolating herself for the last moment. When she finally surfaced, Voldemort had stood, the swirling, deep crimson of his eyes enigmatic. His feet were bare. This little detail caught Hermione's gaze—Voldemort never bared his feet before her unless he was preparing for sleep.

"With Wormtail monopolizing your attention, I was provided thirty hours to contemplate your position in this fortress and in my hands. I have come to the startling conclusion that there is little new material left that I can really do to punish you, short of feeding you experimental potions and subjecting you to curses, which does not seem appropriate for a girl of your… abilities. I can torture and kill or control any number of your companions, and while you would not be unscathed, you would not be permanently broken—if you have not been broken yet, you never will be. Eventually, the actions on my part would lead to a monotony that neither of us would truly appreciate.

"Now, your true friends, or your professors, or even that fool of a Headmaster, they would be a different matter altogether. After making you watch them die, you might break better than if one of my Dementors Kissed you. However, the Order will have their deaths at an appropriate and less impulsive time.

"All that is really left to me is your cat."

Hermione's head jerked up.

"What?" she said, earnestness stealing her breath. "My familiar? Kill my familiar?"

Voldemort began to walk the edge of the bath. "The idea crossed my mind until I realized after immediate observation that the creature is half-Kneazle. If you knew how rare something that fortuitous happens, you would have brought him to Hogwarts and made someone else acquire me as the snake so you could show off how wonderful your cat is. To kill such a cat would be foolish at best. I could hold the treatment of the cat over you, but I'd rather have the cat taken care of. Something that rare should not be dealt with so lightly."

"And how is Crookshanks being cared for?" Hermione asked in a level voice.

Voldemort smirked. "Ironically, Draco Malfoy is giving the cat what it needs." Before Hermione could respond to the shocking information, Voldemort said, "Draco is capable of good care when he is ordered. He has done well with the exceptional familiar."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't believe you let him take care of another pet after handling you."

"Proper motivation could make the earth reverse on its axis," Voldemort replied. "Besides, a cat is more… approachable and friendlier than a snake."

"Um-hm, that's why you slithered around my body and slept in my bed." Hermione let herself smile at the thought, but she repressed it quickly. "I hope Crookshanks sheds on his expensive clothes and uses his bath as a litter box. And if he clawed Draco's eyes out…"

"They are getting along quite well," Voldemort interrupted. "A traitor familiar for a traitor Mudblood."

"Not a traitor at all, but a manipulated prisoner," Hermione said, once again aware of the essence of Wormtail that she still imagined permeated her skin. She sank under the water, rubbed away her tears and tried to comb out Wormtail's hands grasping her hair. She came up when she needed to breathe. "You know that."

"Or do you only want to think so?" Voldemort said.

"No, you want me to think that I am thinking so when, in fact, I know it."

"Strange how easy it is to be self-righteous after you've fucked Wormtail within an inch of his life. He would have died happy, the poor fool."

Hermione froze. She had never heard Voldemort refer to it in so vulgar terms, and he took such relish in saying it.

"And if I did?" she said carefully. "I did not take any enjoyment in it. I just… just wanted a little control."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, not in anger, but as if he was savoring a particularly delicious bite of the rarest meat.

"Control," he murmured, almost like a hum. "You like control as I recall. Would not relinquish it without 'making me squirm.' And it seems to have taken four months of squirming to make you want it back."

Hermione was bewildered—all this just to watch _her_ squirm? Rape, torture, death, and destruction so that he could get even with her for taking him as a _pet_?

"Good god, woman," Voldemort said almost in response to her thoughts, "how trivial do you think I am? This was not _just_ anything. I've told you many times, you've endured so much because I wanted you to; you are the most perfect hostage I've ever had my hands on, and the experience should not be wasted. So close to my enemies, and yet not so close, so alone. So… second or fourth priority."

He offered her a hand out of the bath. She accepted it by habit and stepped out of the water.

"You are an extraordinary girl, Hermione."

Hermione did not know what to think as she began to dry herself off. With the Dark Lord's towels. She glanced at him to see whether he would scold her, punish her for the breach when what he had said finally reached her. She straightened slowly, wary. His eyes were pensive as he stared back.

"I have your notes on many of your experiments regarding the defense of Dark Arts. I've read the commentaries in the margins of your books. I had Carmen request your transcript from the Ministry. Your history is… much like mine. Top scores, awards, academic superiority. Dumbledore is so preoccupied with Harry bloody Potter and how to defeat me that he lost something that could not be replaced. And here I am, presumably making the same mistake."

He took her wrist and led her into his room. She still clutched at the towel. She had no idea what he was doing—his behavior with her was foreign, and she resisted the knot of fear in her stomach begging her to run.

"I have been terrorizing you, torturing you, breaking you down to the most primitive, hopeless levels of hell. I almost succeeded, Hermione, I almost succeeded." He sat on the foot of his bed, released Hermione's wrist. He was looking up at her now, another new act that he had never done before until he was preparing for bed.

"But for all your Ravenclaw surface," he continued, "your inner Gryffindor seems bent on punishment, bent on living, on maintaining your courage, your mind, your control. And nearly getting yourself killed, if my mood was not more inclined to enjoy your company. What you've done here, among everything that might have destroyed anyone else, is nothing short of admirable, but I imagine you would prefer being back at Hogwarts, learning what you _want_ to know, being with your friends, on the other side of enemy lines. You've missed analytical and critical thinking. You've missed essays and spells and potions. Your brilliant mind atrophies in its attempt to survive. Well," he said, standing resolutely, once again establishing his authority, "that would be a tragedy, and I intend to remedy the situation."

"What?" Hermione asked, her brain spinning—confusion was too weak of a word. Disorientated was closer.

The Dark Lord smiled slightly, half-concealed amusement.

"Follow me," he said.


	15. Chapter 14

**Title:** Abyss (14)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 14**

The first thing that struck her was that he was leading her out of his chambers without binding her. And she was still holding his towel around her. They had stepped into the outside corridor when he noticed that she was covered. Without a word, he took an edge of the towel and eased it from her body. Hermione did not protest. She was more comfortable with her nudity in front of him because he never stared; he never indicated any interest beyond her as a creature, no different from a cat or a horse.

Holding the towel in his hand, he did not stare, but he looked. He looked at the bruises that had blossomed under Wormtail's hands. He marked them, but did not respond to their presence with any more than the brief acknowledgment.

"Stay here," he muttered, and he went back into the chambers. She was stunned that for a few moments that he would leave her alone, unfettered. She almost ran, almost escaped, but the knowledge that she would likely be caught or lost in the forest without a wand or clothes in the middle of winter dissuaded her of the notion. The candle of hope was once again extinguished, and Hermione guessed that this had been the Dark Lord's aim. He was half-smiling when he came back without the towel. Had he been Lucius, he would have smelled of burnt terrycloth, but the Dark Lord clearly did not find her so distasteful as that.

"Good girl," Voldemort said, hand brushing her shoulder. Hermione bristled inwardly at the appellation. Although he had not used Legilimency, his half-smile broadened.

They started down the hall. Hermione did not even attempt to lead like she had with Wormtail. She thought that not being chained was a luxury she should enjoy while it lasted. At any moment, Voldemort's mood could shift, and she wanted to be as blameless as possible with him goading her into protests. After her newfound power over Wormtail, her spirit seemed battered, but stitched back together in something that resembled wholeness.

She would escape when he gave her clothes.

She winced when she realized again where she was on the social scale if she thought like that.

Voldemort was leading her down new corridors—less furnished, more and more like the stone and tapestries of Hogwarts, and Hermione felt a stab of nostalgia.

_Harry. Ron. The attack_.

Panic hit her suddenly, like the shock of being dropped into ice water. She stopped in mid-stride. Voldemort paused a few steps ahead when he noticed he was not being followed. He waited patiently as he drank in her fear. He really was in an excellent mood after drinking the Sanguinarian Strengthening Solution, and Hermione's return to herself was a welcome change, as much as the mindless pet had been enjoyable for its time. The way she began to rub the Dark Mark—_her_ Dark Mark—in irritation pleased him even more. Of all the marks on her body, his would last beyond all the ephemeral indications of Wormtail's ardor. His brand… not Wormtail's or Lucius's, nor Potter's or Dumbledore's. The only other permanent marks were those she had given herself—the scars from the liliath burn and the acromantula bite, a few other scars here and there, faded with time, the tattoo of the lycanthe. Her marks, his marks—soon, only theirs. The thought of Hermione, friend of Potter and the real mental power of the other side, exclusively his after he had once been exclusively hers gave him a thrill like the first slide of brandy over the tongue.

Hermione could feel his pleasure like a cotton shift, but she was too preoccupied with the idea that Harry or Ron or someone else like Terry, the twins, or the two younger-year girls might be dead, that their magic and life now resided in the Death Eaters and their lord, strengthening their side.

Wait, not Harry—the young Death Eaters would have been ecstatic—Voldemort would doubtlessly have killed her when her usefulness had ended. And not Ron, or else Draco would have rubbed it in her face beyond his usual mocking. And not any members of the Order, or Voldemort would have told her for the sheer enjoyment of her devastation.

She sighed in tight relief, but she had to wait until Voldemort was ready to continue.

He seemed to be leading her deeper, possibly underground. The air was moderate—although the stones were cold—and dry. Torches lit the walls, and the smell of ashes swirled around them—again reminiscent of Hogwarts, of the dungeons in particular. Hermione almost wished that she could hold someone's hand, although the Dark Lord was easily not a candidate.

_Harry_, she thought again.

_Harry, I hope you believe I'm still good, still on your side. I hope…_

There was a laugh in her head like dizziness, and Hermione stopped thinking about Harry or home and instead tried to think of the magical components of wands all around the world.

"You are not skilled enough to shield your thoughts from me," Voldemort said, "although your knowledge of wand cores and elements of magically-favored trees is extensive. Any other time, I would allow you to continue your inner recitation. But we're here."

They were standing before a simple, crudely-made wooden door guarded solely by a few locking charms and an impressive Bolt Combination Spell. The key hung by the door, large and black and German, for show if Hermione guessed correctly. Voldemort unwove the spells around the door with a sinuous series of wand gestures. Hermione thought that his castings were amazing to behold, almost like a dance of magic, and in spite of herself, Hermione watched his wand sweep through the air, listened to the purring of his spells as each ward dropped like slit curtains. When the charms had all been stripped from the door, Voldemort took the key and unlocked it.

He knew her question, so he answered before she could ask. "Yes, _Alohomora_ would work just as well, but I have always found his choice of a key quaint and appropriate in its own barbaric way. It is not meant to be serious—more of a habit or a quirk for him, I suppose."

"He?" Hermione asked.

Voldemort felt no need to reply. He simply lit the lantern on the desk and the torches on the wall, and Hermione could see why Voldemort did not have to say anything.

This was Professor Snape's laboratory.

Perhaps laboratory was too specific a word, although study was not quite right either. There were cupboards and cabinets of potions ingredients and finished products as well as a few clean cauldrons and a work table, but on the other side of the room was a desk, a comfortable chair, and a wall filled with books—leather-bound volumes that smelled like heaven. She almost fainted from the assault of the most wonderful aromas on the good, green earth—pine, toad fluids, sage, basil, nightshade essence, snake skin, parchment, ink, dust, and the ever-present smell that seemed permeate Snape's rooms—perhaps the smell of his robes or Snape himself, she never stepped close enough to tell. She expected Snape to sweep through the door like a dark fury, seething and spouting the ingredients of the latest potion.

But Snape was no longer welcome among the Death Eaters, and there was only the Dark Lord, who was watching her reaction, a snake watching a white mouse.

Hermione clenched her hands and held them behind her back. Voldemort spoke again when he was sure that she knew where she was.

"It is truly a shame that Severus felt the need to betray me. He is a genius, certainly beyond my Death Eaters. Like you, he was largely underappreciated. However, his skills with potions-making as well as his startling knowledge of curses at such a young age inevitably caught my attention. Even before the boy became one of my own, it was a pleasure to watch him work over a cauldron. There is not a more beautiful sight than to watch an artful obsession in play. During his first brewing for me, I knew that he was going to become my Death Eater." He caressed the edge of a cabinet. "Only a man of his talents could shield which of his potions were impure and which were true. They looked and smelled exactly the same. We only knew the difference long after they had been unsuccessful. I have other capable potions brewers, but none like Severus. The man is wasted on teaching children who don't want to learn from him."

"I wanted to learn," Hermione said quietly. "But he was not very approachable."

The Dark Lord smiled. "I wouldn't expect so. I suppose that was part of the reason I took such pride in his submissive form as he bowed before me."

"Is that what you enjoy about me?" Hermione asked.

"In a different way," Voldemort said, opening one of the cabinets and taking out a flask. He unstopped the neck and passed the flask under his nose. "Here is one of his other derivatives of the basic Strengthening Solution. Not the Sanguinarian, but still affective, at least temporarily."

He took a drink so that the flask was only half-full. He closed his eyes as he savored the taste, and like watching him create magic, she found herself transfixed at the vulnerable movement of his white throat as he swallowed. For a moment, the Dark Lord was unguarded--he actually permitted himself to be unguarded in her presence. Her clenched hands loosened as he breathed in and the potion took its hold. He jerked slightly, then held the flask out to her, lids opening for the scarlet of his eyes.

Hermione's eyebrows arched in surprise. Why was he offering _her_ a form of the Strengthening Solution? She thought he wanted her to be weak and obsequious—certainly not strong. She shifted nervously.

"It's all right, Hermione," Voldemort murmured, adjusting his sleeve, causing the opalescent solution to shimmer under the lighting. "It cannot be poisoned."

Hermione hesitated before wrapping her fingers around the glass. His fingers brushed hers as he released it, and she drank the rest of the potion. It was bitter and tasted like licorice, but not as revolting as some potions she had been given in the hospital wing. She understood why he winced as the potion just seemed to _drop_ into her stomach. But the warmth simmered and spread like hot chocolate, and she, too, closed her eyes to take in the feeling.

Voldemort took the empty flask from her hand and set it on the work table. He grasped her chin, starting her eyes open.

"An interesting sensation, isn't it?" he said, releasing her. "I take advantage of the vast stock to partake of the potion. Not because it is needed, but for the feeling. So many potions have no stimulation for the palate, but Severus experimented with this one long enough to give it tolerable, even acceptable, flavor."

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"It is an acquired taste," he said, amused by her reaction.

Voldemort settled into a chair at the work table and indicated for Hermione to kneel at his feet. Hermione obeyed and looked up at him, waiting for the real reason he brought her there.

"I watched you as you brewed the Nightmare Potion," he began finally. His attention was not on her, but on his experience as a snake in the past. "I watched you as you developed the countercharm previously unknown to the wizarding world. You were methodical, mechanical, rational, and precise, not at all like Severus. No, in that you were like me. Your wand waving is something you take the time to cultivate, but potions are too volatile for you to waste precious seconds on grace—Severus seemed to have talent for the art, but you and I only have talent for the skill of potions, which is enough in all practical cases."

His hand returned to her hair like it had during Death Eater meetings in the throne room. She tried not to focus on her position and his touch and instead tried to follow where his mind was leading her. He was right when he said she was methodical but not artful in the process of brewing potions. She could invent, but she could not create—not like Professor Snape. Hermione was surprised, though, that Voldemort did not consider himself an _artiste_ of potions. The catalogue of her memory brought out a scene in the trophy room of Hogwarts for her perusal. She could see a page in the Hogwarts public archives as plainly as if she were in her second year.

_Riddle, Tom MarvoloN.E.W.T. results_

All of them were as perfect as perfect could be. Although she had already planned on earning full marks on her N.E.W.T.s before she saw Riddle's, after she knew that there had been someone that smart in the past, she decided that since Riddle had done it, she would do it, too. When she learned that Tom Riddle was Lord Voldemort, her determination only augmented. And now that she was in the possession of said Dark Lord, the prospect of her ambition seemed dim. Still, perfect marks did not signify perfection in every way. And it pleased her that if potions brewing was not an art for her, at least it was not for him either.

"However," the Dark Lord continued, stroking her head, "you do have creative talent in other areas of magic, so the straightforward nature of your potions brewing should not cause you undue concern in your quest for utter mastery. What you do _is_ mastery."

Compliments. He was giving her compliments. The thought immediately sprang to her mind: _What does he want me to do?_

"Believe me, Hermione," Voldemort said, running the smooth side of a nail down her jaw line to recapture her attention. "I do not say any of these things lightly. In fact, I would not say them at all if even a fraction of it were not true. And this truth… none of my Death Eaters, or Cat's Paws, or Black Dogs, can compare with you, which frustrates them to no end, particularly the old, wizarding families. To them, you are an anomaly that disproves everything on which pureblood philosophy prides itself.

"However, I welcome all who would join me willingly if I can use their skills. My followers cannot do the things that you can do. And with the one esteemed potions brewer among my followers no longer under my influence and command, I am left with incompetence. There are the few adequate brewers for what I need, but Severus had an eye for subtlety to brew the things I _want_. Things like this derivative of the Strengthening Solution or several temporary lust potions, and even the Nightmare Potion. I can brew, but it takes far too much time—time that I cannot sacrifice. Also, Severus was thorough in his privacy. The potions in this cabinet are clearly and truthfully marked, as well as those in the chest here. The cupboards hold potions labeled in Severus' hand, but faded or in some sort of code of his with which I am unfamiliar. Given a day or two, I could crack the code, but… I've decided to leave that to you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. So he wanted to use her intellect for his own ends, did he? She opened her mouth to protest.

"Not yet, Hermione." He laid his index finger against her mouth, only the barest of contact. Yet it was not his gesture but the way his neck curved that silenced her. Like when Belthazar was staring at her with one eye from his position curled around her shoulders. The movement reminded her that though he might look and act like a man, he was not quite human. He had bits of the snake about him still—the result of Nagini's milkings, maybe Naga rites. She wondered if he was more amused or annoyed at his Animagus form.

"_Accio_ _SS's Writings_," Voldemort said, pointing his wand at the wall of books. A heavy tome of hand-bound parchment came to his outstretched hand. He opened it upside-down on his lap so that she could see it. He kept his eyes on her.

Hermione looked down at the book. Like his smell in the room, Professor Snape's familiar, spidery script sent a pang through her. Even though his comments on her essays were biting and, at times, even insulting, she found that she had missed it. She could smell him more strongly on the pages, as though his essence was caught in his words—words that were not intended to cut but intended only to record, perhaps dry, perhaps eloquent, she could not tell. They were a tangled thread of meaningless letters. Hermione was surprised that Professor Snape had managed to keep this work from Lord Voldemort, even with his skill in Occlumency.

Voldemort answered her unspoken question, although Hermione had not sensed him in her mind. "The only reason I never noted his obvious intension to prevent any sort of intrusion on his notes was because I never looked, never suspected. It was only after his… abrupt retirement that I went through his books."

Her eyes flit over the intelligible lines, trying to find an immediate pattern. Then she sat back on her heels.

"If his laboratory is here," Hermione mused, "then why can't the Order find your fortress? And why can't Professor Snape group-Apparate with the Order?"

"The wards don't let anyone through by Apparition without a Mark that I give them. Only Wormtail and I know where the fortress is, and not even Wormtail would be able to find it on his own due to a well-cast Confundus and Obliviate. The fortress is Unplottable, hidden and protected. Recruits without a Mark come by select Portkeys to the training center in the woods—never within my fortress—and they are cursed into secrecy until they officially become a follower and no longer wish to divulge the location. Or they're dead. There are, of course, other ways in only for my Death Eaters, but I have sealed Severus from the fortress now that he has seen you and the seeds of suspicion have been sown." He raised an eyebrow. "A cursory glance will give you no insight, Hermione. No more than it gave me."

"I am not going to do this," Hermione said, jerking back from the book. She shook her head violently even as her mind continued to try and translate.

Voldemort lifted the book from his lap and set it on the table. Taking a deep breath, he stood, walked around Hermione, took out a similarly bound book, and set it next to Professor Snape's, opened to a blank page of parchment.

"You will, Hermione," Voldemort said simply. There was no derision, no secret humor, only plain knowledge. "You've sat around and waited long enough. You've been a good, little, obedient pet. But you've tired of that now. You were not made to be a whore or someone's lap dog, though you played the part for a while, and well. No, in the end, you are a brilliant mind and a skillful witch. What was it that Lucius gave you for a reward? Erotica? Escapist fiction? What kind of 'mental stimulation' is that for someone like you?"

"You want me to help you," Hermione said, standing in indignation. "You want me to decipher his writings so that you can know what was going on in his head, what kind of mutinous thoughts and actions that he had. You want me to betray the Order, my friends, everything I believed in… for you."

Voldemort held his head higher. "Yes."

"No."

Voldemort went to the desk, took out two ink bottles, a quill, and an extra scroll of parchment.

"I am giving you a fair choice," he said. "You can do nothing, which incidentally doesn't thwart me in any way. Or you can translate the text, which I would eventually do myself given the time."

"Time that would take you away from the war," Hermione replied.

Voldemort brought the supplies to the books.

"You will do this for me, Hermione," he repeated. "Why fight the inevitable?"

"Fighting you is all I have left," she said desperately. "I'm here with you, and all I can do is fight. That's what I was trying to do at Hogwarts, and I'm certainly not going to stop now."

Voldemort looked at her. "I wondered when you were going to bring in your vaunted Gryffindor bravery and persistence." He twisted his countenance in disgust. "You are no Gryffindor, Hermione. You may have been one in the past, but a true Gryffindor would have died so long ago. A true Gryffindor would never have submitted to such an extent as you have. My dear girl," he said with a mirthless laugh, "you have become more like a Slytherin. A Hufflepuff would have broken into a shuddering mass of tears in the first week of my possession. A Ravenclaw would have taken her life. A Gryffindor would have angered me or my Death Eaters until she died in blazing glory as best befits a pure heroine. But you… a Slytherin knows when submission is beneficial. A Slytherin knows when secrets must be kept from all."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of trinkets that he set next to the writing supplies: her bracelets and rings, the ones that she had worn starting sixth year when she decided to learn the Dark Arts to counter them—without Harry or Ron. The protection talismans and the string of leather for Belthazar's teeth. Hermione's stomach tightened.

As she stared at the evidence of her secrets, Voldemort opened one of the three cupboards and took out a set of robes. He came behind her and wrapped the fabric around her body. The robes were cut for a much larger frame; they pooled at her feet and fell over her hands. Voldemort adjusted the length and did up the buttons with his wand—_That must be how Professor Snape manages with all those buttons every day_, Hermione thought irrelevantly.

"You aren't a proper Slytherin," Voldemort murmured into her ear, almost as though he was speaking directly into her mind, "and you never will be. But there is no reason to continue this charade, no need to pretend you're still a Gryffindor." He grasped her shoulders and bent even closer.

"You fool yourself if you think you could have continued your study of the Dark Arts without consequences. Eventually, you would have found a spell, a potion, a theory that caught your eye. You'd try it on yourself—or maybe on one of your Gryffindor friends—in a strictly experimental capacity, of course. But the power you would find—the ability to manipulate a being or state through sheer will—would intoxicate you; you would grow addicted to the heady sensation of control—a feeling that I think you've already experienced with Wormtail, no?"

She did not answer. Voldemort did not expect one.

"So begins the steady spiral into darkness… into me. The Dark Arts should never be practiced as casually as you presumed to. It deserves fear, Hermione, respect, respect that you never gave it because you believed yourself immune when your curiosity itself was your undoing."

She shivered, but not with cold. His words were like icicles being driven into her brain in frigid spears.

"Hermione," he whispered, "it would have only been a matter of time before you came to me of your own volition, damned by your own curiosity."

Hermione stepped away from the Dark Lord. She restrained the urge to cover her ears against the onslaught of venomous words.

"Not all of us are like you," Hermione said, whirling on him. "Professor Snape was redeemed, wasn't he? Aurors have to study the Dark Arts; specialists at St. Mungo's have to study the Dark Arts. They don't…"

"Severus still has a taste for the dark, Hermione," Voldemort interrupted. "He can fight it every day of his life, but even Dumbledore knows that although his loyalties have changed, he can never be innocent or good. Aurors, for all the popularity and idealism attributed to their profession, are no better than my followers, if you insist on thinking in terms of good and evil. They flounder in peacetime. They torture, initiate illegal interrogations, itch for something to kill once they stick their nose in their first slaying and smell the blood—they justify it with self-righteousness, but they lie to themselves. They are Dark wizards who chose a different side. And those in the medical profession who specialize in countering the Dark? They lose what soul and humanity they had before they saw a true victim. They become empty, and the Dark Arts fill the empty spaces. They ignore it with the vacuum that was once their emotion, borne of pain. You've never seen a real specialist, have you? You've only seen nurses, caregivers, go-betweens. When you see a specialist, look at the glassy hollows of his or her eyes. The Dark Arts, when they are unacknowledged despite submersion, turn you into something new. You would not have avoided the same fate; the Arts would have consumed you. Your power would have been called to mine, and you would have come to me."

He touched her cheek gently.

"I am all you've got, Hermione."

She twitched away from his touch. "I think you underestimate our loyalty, _my lord_. Harry and Ron…"

'If Harry Potter is not cursing your name now," Voldemort shouted, "what do you think he will do if he ever sees your Dark Mark?"

"I'll tell him it was forced on me…"

"And you think he'll trust you implicitly," Voldemort sneered. "Even a Hufflepuff would have doubts after everything you've done. So much for loyalty when secrets must be kept from the Order, from your best friends, when you couldn't even tell Potter about your Dark activities. He will see the Mark on your arm—your arm will be the first thing they want to see. When they see my brand, they'll assume the worst, and your protests will not be heard as you're sent off to Azkaban for treason." Voldemort smiled now, composed. "Hogwarts' own Head Girl in Azkaban for being a Death Eater. That might point a certain amount of suspicion at the Headmaster of such a school. Welcome to a Slytherin world, where appearance means more than justice. If I ever let you out of here, Hermione, you would never be trusted again. Everyone would think you were mine, that you had freely done my will."

"No," Hermione said.

"You might as well do something. Translation is harmless, Hermione. I simply do not wish to waste the time myself."

"No," she repeated.

Voldemort sighed. "Still insisting that you're an unsullied Gryffindor? Very well. You will understand your place in time. Until then, however…"

He summoned a set of shackles from the floor at the sides of the chair, much like the ones at the foot of his bed that would conveniently extend their chains if she needed to use the lavatory. He pushed her into the chair and clasped the shackles around her wrists.

"Just in case you change your mind and the temptation is too great…" Voldemort said. He kissed her forehead. "I'll have the house-elves send your meals here. There is a bed in the other room, but unfortunately, your chains cannot go there—and you can't take anything from Severus' shelves either. So it's this or nothing. Enjoy yourself, my own."

And she was left staring at gibberish and a blank page.

"I won't," she said childishly to no one.


	16. Chapter 15

**Title:** Abyss (15)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 15**

Over the next three weeks, she slept with her head on the work table, she went to the bathroom, she paced, she ate, but she determinedly did not translate Professor Snape's writings. At least, that's what she told herself when she looked over the letters without writing down notes on cryptograms and other sorts of codes. Sometimes she found herself too close to figuring one part of the code, and she would close the book to shut away the temptation to exercise her straining mind. If she were at Hogwarts, she would have jumped at the task, would have consumed every letter, welcomed the challenge that the works of Professor Snape might give her. After all, his logic puzzle in her first year was fun to answer, the threat to life notwithstanding.

When she thought she would spontaneously grab the quill and begin writing in pent up frustration, she sat under the table and clasped her legs to her chest. She fingered the teeth on the leather bracelet. She had replaced her talismans, comfortable with their old familiarity on her skin despite the connotation the Dark Lord had set upon them.

Hermione leaned against the table leg. Voldemort's blunt statements still echoed in her head. That she wasn't a Gryffindor anymore. That she had betrayed Harry and Ron and the Order by not telling them what she was doing, even though she was working with rather than against them. That the Dark Arts had taken hold of her, and she would have joined him willingly in the end—the Mark would not have been forced in the future. This last bit made her shiver the most. She was vulnerable to the Dark Arts. She did not necessarily believe that she would have prostrated herself before the Dark Lord, begging him to let her become his total and unbending servant just because she dabbled in the Arts, but… Her mother had once told her that her heart was open, innocent, and receptive. Voldemort was right when he said that she had not respected the Arts. To her, they had been something new to learn and manipulate to her own ends, not something that had its own invisible form or will to dominate. Despite the warnings, despite all the examples of those who had fallen under the influence of the Arts…

Hermione wrinkled her nose. She had hated it when Lupin or Professor Dumbledore threw them in her face, Snape, Draco, Voldemort. She had told herself she would be careful, study the Dark Arts only in a countering capacity; she couldn't possibly end up like them.

"_But the power you would find--the ability to manipulate a being or state through sheer will--would intoxicate you; you would grow addicted to the heady sensation of control--a feeling that I think you've already experienced with Wormtail, no?"_

She remembered the look on his face when she had the power. She remembered the sounds he made, the frantic pants, groans, even the screams when she played him. She remembered the swell of superiority. And she knew that if she were thrown into his bed again, she would not lie there passively—she would have to have control again, she would make him writhe, knowing that she _made_ him rather than just have him take her.

Not just Wormtail, though. She could not say that her escapades into the Forbidden Forest, or Knockturn Alley, or sneaking through Snape's stores or the Defense professor's office, had left her cold and emotionless. Her heart had quickened, and she had become dizzy with anticipation. She told herself it was just nerves, but what she could not admit to herself was that the adrenaline rush made her more than just nervous. When she was safe in her room—in the sixth-year dorm or the Head Girl chambers—she would breathe a sigh of relief, and the high would last for about an hour. Harry once caught her when she came in with a huge grin on her face, and he commented that it must have been a pretty good snog, and he wouldn't ask about it just in case Ron asked him where she was that night. Hermione only grinned more, the thrill of being caught almost better than the relief of not being caught.

Hermione closed her eyes, her fingers still playing with the snake fangs, and she tried to shut out evidence of the Dark Arts' supremacy. Still, Snape's snarling face superimposed itself on her blank slate, and she shivered. Lupin had told her Snape was the Order's Dark Arts researcher because he had already fallen to them. That Lupin and Voldemort were in agreement told her that what she had considered Snape's immunity was not immunity at all—unless she wanted to call already having the sickness immunity. He was not redeemed—only moderated, the beast held in check. She wondered if Lupin was considered to be under the Dark Arts, if his beast had to be fought all the time.

As a response to her depressing turn of thoughts, her mind leapt from Snape's darkness to his writings.

_No, no, no, no, no, I'm not going to translate. This is exactly what he wants me to do. And if Voldemort wants it, no matter what he says, it's not something I'm going to do. I couldn't betray…_

Which led her guilty train of thought in a full circle. She did not even catch herself as her hand drifted down her arm to rub her Dark Mark.

Without warning, the first page of _SS's Writings_ surfaced in her mind, clear as if she could see it right in front of her.

_hr hj nfhrtcngtj, cbpjrvyjnt, cjrylj, jmpyng gptgrd hh gppjnp phn hyp hhk nd y hmj ryck f gtj npcrgmbljp y grjfclly hnptrcctjd hdj, Y gnt h gy jrj nd hw hgt y hygltyjp, cpt ykj hcrp, gvj jvjr jglly jjn hr hj grk hrd. jw f yp hllhwjrp jglly hllhw ym n hjyr hhcghtp—hjrj rj g jw, nd hpt rj jgth gtjrp. hjyr hygltyjp rj hr hjmpjlvjp nd hjmpjlvjp lhnj. Y, n hj thjr gnd, jrvj h nj, nclcdyng ypjlf. Y gvj h hygltyjp. Y hcld gvj yjd g jgr ftjr y jrvycj yth hj grk hrd, ct y gmnjd hnhr h j hh Y rcly jtrgyjd, hh Y jlyjvj jtrgyjd j n y hcr f jjd, jpt j lyvj, h Y ctjd p py hr ym. jp, g jgr nth hj grk hrd'p jrvycj, Y jtrgyjd ym, ct j yd ht ppjgl h y hnhr nd Y jlt h jmhrpj. Y jjl h jnpj f hyglty h lbcp cmbljdhrj, ct Y tyll wj ym y hnhr._

_ftjr hc jgd hyp, Y yll j hndjmnjd r gvj jjn hndjmnjd, nd hnj f hjpj hrdp yll gttjr. f t p jvjr jgd, hjn y hhcghtp rj y wn, rjj, nfjttjrjd, nd Y jjl h jjd h ydj hjm n y jgd. hgt hllhwp p nrjptrgynjd y ychphgncy r crcpljp, gmblyngp hr hptjryty hpjfclly n hj gr ctcrj hjn hj grk hrd gp jjn hnqcjrjd nd yp gmj p h hngjr jgrjd, ct pjd nfrjqcjntly n ypthry jxtp. vjn g gn ythhct hpj gn rjgm._

_S.S._

The 'Y's were clearly 'I's, and the vowels were obviously replaced with the consonants that kept repeating themselves, but sometimes the solitary letters just didn't make sense…

_Down, Hermione._

She was pathetic. She knew it. Pathetic. A pathetic little rat, a snake in the grass, all those lovely, traitorous metaphors. She could loll listlessly at the foot of Voldemort's bed and memorize the Greek key designs and each snifter of brandy—by smell, no less—but she could not sit in Professor Snape's private laboratory with a book open and keening for attention without giving in. Surely she was not that weak. Surely…

Were there letters missing?

_Hermione_. _Stop it._

The consonants that replaced the vowels were common themselves. Which were the replacements and which were the originals?

_Hermione Jane Granger!_

She jumped as her nail raked against the Dark Mark, pinching at the skin and drawing blood. It was tingling, but not burning, not an indescribable, insistent burning like she had seen with the other Death Eaters. It startled her, and she hated to think of herself in the same category as the Death Eaters.

_When they see your Mark, they're going to kill you._

Those were not Voldemort's words, they were her own. She touched the Mark, watching as the red faded back to its traditional black. It had not done that before, so Hermione knew Voldemort reminded her of her binding to him on purpose. Maybe he did it to rouse her Gryffindor righteous ire. She laughed mockingly at herself.

_What makes you think that after all of this, anything is going to get better? They'll assume the worst, you know it._

But someone always believed her. When Ron got in a snit with her regarding Crookshanks, Harry supported her. Okay, maybe he did not believe her quite so much, but at least he did not _tell_ her that he didn't believe her. And Ron was such a good friend while Harry was being a prat in fifth year—sure, they argued a lot, but nothing was wrong with a little arguing, even if it had annoyed Harry. She wished she could be arguing with Ron over something stupid right now instead of contemplating how to betray her friends. She couldn't do this to Harry. Wait, strike Harry, she couldn't do this to _Snape_. He had clearly wanted to hide his thoughts.

Or… had he?

If so, why would he keep the book in the laboratory? He knew Voldemort's abilities. If Hermione was deciphering the code without even trying, Voldemort could probably do it just as easily. Why keep a book where Voldemort could find it?

Unless he wanted it to be found at the right time.

The idea was so big in comparison to everything that she had just been thinking that she climbed out from under the table, opened his book, and looked at the page. She looked on the next page to compare the two, and there seemed to be a division of writing style. The former was introductory, more casual, while the pages following it had lists and numbers and the writing was cramped, like hers when she wanted to fit everything into a confined essay. Therefore, the introduction would likely have no information from which Voldemort could profit.

She would translate this page—no others—and she would not write down the code, only the translated words. Which led to the dilemma of the code.

As she stared at the letters, she began to substitute vowels where they looked like they belonged: an 'a' here, an 'e' there, let's see how that works. And in less than thirty minutes, she cracked the code. Snape had to have intentionally made it this easy—it had to be this easy on purpose. If not… Hermione felt a blush creep up her face. She wondered if he had intentionally made the potions logic puzzle easy as well. Or maybe she just… Voldemort just… she never really thought about being smart before, but she had always thought that Snape was clever—if lacking in social graces—and had dismissed any idea that the talents she had were any more than learning how to crack open a book, a skill that so many people failed to accomplish.

She _really_ hoped that the code was supposed to be that easy.

She wrote out Professor Snape's words in the blank book, mentally adding letters where they were needed. She tried not to think about what they said until it was finished.

What she read made her color again, but she felt better now that she knew the introduction had nothing of interest to the Dark Lord. There, in Snape's hand, was an introductory confession of sorts.

_For the unfortunate, subservient, puerile, temping bastard who happens upon this book and by some trick of fate unscrambles my carefully constructed code, I want to say here and now that my loyalties, just like yours, have never really been for the Dark Lord. Few of his followers really follow him in their thoughts—there are a few, and most are Death Eaters. Their loyalties are for themselves and themselves alone. I, on the other hand, serve no one, including myself. I have no loyalties. I would have died a year after my service with the Dark Lord, but my damned honor to he who I truly betrayed, who I believe betrayed me in my hour of need, kept me alive, so I acted as spy for him. Yes, a year into the Dark Lord's service, I betrayed him, but he did not appeal to my honor and I felt no remorse. I feel no sense of loyalty to Albus Dumbledore, but I still owe him my honor._

_After you read this, I will be condemned or have been condemned, and none of these words will matter. If it is never read, then my thoughts are my own, free, unfettered, and I feel no need to hide them in my head. What follows is unrestrained by sycophancy or scruples, ramblings for posterity hopefully in the far future when the Dark Lord has been conquered and his name is no longer feared, but used infrequently in history texts. Even a man without hope can dream._

_S.S._

His first line cut her straight to the quick. Once again, she thought, she was pathetic. And she would not go a single line further.

She slammed Professor Snape's book shut and hid under the table, rubbing her Dark Mark.

---

"Well, well, well, if the little Mudblood hasn't done her homework," the voice said in her ear. Hermione's eyes opened. She did not know when she fell asleep.

"Malfoy," she replied, trying to swallow the taste of sleep from her mouth.

"Almost wish that I could still go back to Hogwarts so I could tell Potter just what a bad girl you've been," Draco continued.

"And I almost wish I was back in third year so that I could hit you properly—so that you didn't get up again," Hermione groaned, trying to stand against the tide of dizziness. She moved so quickly that her head hit the table, and she fell back to the floor.

Draco's laughter was far too loud. Hermione bit back a few choice phrases as she brought her hand to the bump that was growing on the top of her skull. This time, she gingerly made her way out from under the table, checking her balance as she went. She did not seem unduly disoriented, so she waited for the room to stop tilting. She was startled when Draco reached out a hand to steady her. She wrenched away and leaned against the table, holding her head.

"I was just trying to help."

Hermione coughed out something that could have been a laugh. "You, help me? I thought I was just a Mudblood. I thought I was just friends with Harry. I thought I had no purpose except to further the Dark Lord's evil plot. If you really want to help me, you can undo the shackles, retrieve my wand, and help me get out of range of the fortress so that I can Apparate back home. But for some odd reason, I don't think you're going to do that. So don't talk about helping me."

"You're quite welcome, Granger, for keeping your cat alive, healthy, and happy. It was my pleasure, really." He was satisfied when she shot him a glare but did not respond. "Let me help you."

"I'd rather kiss a snake."

"And apparently, you've done so. Within Hogwarts walls with the Dark Lord posing as my snake, no less. Now sit down and shut up."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. The room had stopped spinning, and she could look straight at him. "Last time I checked, Malfoy, _I_ was the Head Girl. It doesn't matter where I am, I'm still your superior."

He sneered. "You've never been superior, Granger. It doesn't matter how many titles you've received, from Head Girl to bitch, you've never been better than me."

"I may be the Dark Lord's pet, Malfoy, but I'll always be better than you. Even at my lowest, I've more than twice your magic."

Draco raised his own eyebrow. "So that's why you've done exactly what the Dark Lord told you to do."

Hermione faltered, then retorted feebly, "You do no less."

"But at least I admit it. And at least no one expects anything different." His voice became slightly bitter. "At least with you they'll be surprised."

Hermione became concerned. Was he not pleased that he was a Death Eater? Isn't that what he had been working toward all his life? "You could always prove them wrong, you know," she said.

He snorted. "Yeah, right. And turn out like you?"

No, he was unredeemable. Pity. Just as pathetic as she was.

"Why'd you come, Malfoy?" she asked wearily, sitting down in the chair.

"Our lord asked me nicely and politely to see your progress," he replied, looking over her shoulder at the translated page.

After reading it, he looked at her and grinned. "Well, the son of a bitch got the first part right, Granger. How does it make you feel to know you've done the Dark Lord's dirty work?"

"Like shite. Get out." She closed the translating book and glared at Draco. He was not fazed. She supposed being chained took some of the menace out of her position. But she was telling the truth when she told him how badly she felt now.

"No," Draco said, nonchalant as he approached Snape's bookshelves. "I'd rather stay and taunt you a bit."

"You and every other Death Eater," Hermione muttered. To Draco, she said, "I'm not going to listen to you, you know."

"Yeah, you've never listened, have you, Mudblood? It didn't affect you at all when I first called you that in our second year, when you could have finally appreciated how low you really were, when you could have finally realized that book knowledge doesn't have any stake in blood."

"No kidding. Otherwise Crabbe and Goyle would be smart."

"Proving yourself to be the chirpy little beaver doesn't replace blood, Granger," Draco said. "You can try to be a real witch. You can learn everything that a book can tell you, but you can't learn how to hold yourself according to real magicking standards."

"What is it about blood that makes it so important?" Hermione yelled. "You've been heckling me for the past seven years because of blood. Other people are called 'blood traitor' just because they're associated with me. I can't go anywhere in Muggle clothes without the name 'Mudblood' being whispered behind my back—and plenty of purebloods go around in Muggle clothes, but somehow they know that I'm not. Why—with your utter lack of personality, intelligence, character, charisma, beauty, grace, and I wish I could say style, but you've got great style—are you better than me just because you were _born_? Even the Dark Lord that you've bound yourself to is half-blood."

Draco was tense, stiff as a puppet. He turned to face her, but his knuckles were still white from clenching his fingers against the shelf so tightly. "He knew to purify his blood—every element of Muggle blood has been siphoned from his body and destroyed—all that's left is the blood of Salazar Slytherin. But he also knows that when a child is born into a family that has pure blood, that child knows his own power, has been surrounded by it for so long that he is a part of it. Muggle-borns and half-bloods are always tainted with some sort of Muggle ideology that you can't get rid of. A pureblood child knows to let his power grow naturally, instead of forcing it into a synthetic package. A pureblood child knows that you can't _learn_ magic. You can perfect your swish-and-flick and your pronunciation, and the spell can work perfectly, but the magic will only do what it needs to do. It has no grace. It's mechanical. I know that magic is something to be caressed, molded, cajoled into a semi-sentient form. Even the least talented wizard feels his way through what he can do. You've got the magic, Granger, I'm not saying you don't. You wouldn't be able to swish-and-flick your way through Hogwarts legend if you didn't. But you don't really _know_ your magic. And you never can."

Hermione just looked at him for a while. He was serious. He was not being insulting or derogatory. He was serious. When he looked back at her, his pale gray eyes were solemn, pensive, not condescending. Maybe the Dark Lord had told him to be nice, but Hermione felt that maybe what he said was not the part of some speech Voldemort had given him. This was Draco. Not the Malfoy of Hogwarts, but Draco.

"You know," Hermione finally said. "I'm glad I didn't say anything about your eloquence, because if you haven't got that in spades, you've got enough to render me speechless for a few minutes."

"What a miracle," Draco mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"But," she continued, "it's just about the stupidest thing I've ever heard of."

He sneered. "Of course you'd think so, you're a Mudblood…"

"Oh, don't revert back to the name-calling, Malfoy, you were just getting interesting," Hermione said, smiling sweetly. "The point is: you have no basis for comparison. How do you know I haven't any understanding of what my magic is? What makes you think you have the slightest clue that I understand magic differently from you? Sure, I read books, but I just like to know things—I like to have all the background I can so that I can understand _what_ I'm feeling, not to recreate what's _supposed_ to be there. I like to know theory so that I can create magic in other ways. How do you think new charms are made? You think a wizard just _feels_ it? No, the wizard wants to change something, then _feels_ his way through intelligent research. All our professors at Hogwarts know that, otherwise they'd only teach us the practical and let us understand the theory through osmosis. It's just… who told you that Muggleborns didn't understand? Your father?"

"Yes."

"The Dark Lord?"

"Yes."

"How would they know? How could they possibly comprehend every single Muggle-born and half-blood's psyche just by the basis of their own? And your father's a bloody pureblood, how can he know how a Muggleborn feels her magic?"

"Careful how you talk about my father," Draco said.

"Grow up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "I'll talk about your father however I like."

"What gives you the…"

"Does performing fellatio give me the right?"

Draco fell silent, digesting the idea, slightly shocked that his father would have done something like that with someone he actually knew, albeit loathed. "Our lord's idea?"

"Both he and Lucius agreed that Lucius should break me. It didn't work," Hermione replied.

"Don't call my father by his name."

"He asked… pardon, commanded me to call him by his first name."

Draco grinned. "Bet he wanted you to call his name out when you..."

Hermione's shoulders lifted compulsively, as though trying to shrug off the memory. "No," she said and looked away. "He did it because I'm the Dark Lord's, not his."

Draco jumped onto Snape's desk. "You really got into some deep shite, didn't you, Granger? Who would have ever thought you'd turn into our lord's pet? It has certain poetic justice, don't you think?"

"I may be his pet, but he's _not_ my lord," Hermione muttered, retreating back under the table.

Hermione could hear Draco's boots against the floor, walking toward her. She jumped as the blank book hit the ground in front of her. Draco crouched down and opened it to the first page, where the translation of Snape's introduction was written in her neat hand.

"Isn't he?" Draco said. Hermione could not say anything. He gave her a knowing smile and stood.

"I'll make your cat purr for you, Hermione," he called on his way out. "By the way, Snape's robes look stunning on you. I'll bet he would have liked it."

Hermione repressed the urge to start shaking, and when she was sure he was gone, she crawled out with the book in her hands. She rubbed her wrists where the shackles weighed heavy on the delicate bones. She stared at the two books.

Then Hermione opened Snape's writings and her own book and began to translate. She was pathetic, but she wasn't fooling anyone.

---

She was a quarter of the way through the books. Snape's notes were fascinating to say the least. From personal anecdotes and musings to potions notes, Snape managed to inject every bit of his acerbic wit and dry eloquence into every sentence. It was almost as though his acid tongue that she had heard so often in potions class was burning accusingly through her brain, as though he knew what she was doing. And from the way he acted before the recruit initiation, she guessed that he did.

But when her guilt was not tying her stomach into knots, she lost herself in his observations as the words decrypted themselves before her eyes, as though the code melted away into clarity. Sometimes, she even laughed when he mentioned his frustration with Neville—frustration so keen that he felt it cathartic to write it down in a book dedicated for more important matters. He wrote very little about the Dark Lord—perhaps he knew that he ought to preserve some semblance of loyalty if his death was going to be quicker and less painful. However, he wrote one paragraph devoted to his former master:

_hj grk hrd p ht gd. t p hh gpy h ypmypp yp gdnjpp hr jyng gd, ct j p hh grjfcl, hh cnnyng. nd j p gr hh hwjrfcl h gptj yp gljntp h jyng gd. t p ypyllcpyhnyng hjn yp gdnjpp ll hh ftjn hrkp._

_The Dark Lord is not mad. It is too easy to dismiss his madness for being mad, but he is too careful, too cunning. And he is far too powerful to waste his talents to being mad. It is disillusioning when his madness all too often works._

"Severus always was one to be rational," Voldemort said.

Hermione jumped, causing an ink spot to form after her period.

He leaned against the table and looked down at her, as casual as if she were only writing in her own diary rather than fulfilling his wishes, rather than acting the traitor, however small the act was.

"Even when he agreed with my plans, I could sense his doubt. It always irritated him that my instincts were correct. For all his instincts with a cauldron, he could never seem to trust his instinct in reality." He looked back down at the parchment page over which her quill was poised. "I have other tasks for you after you've finished this one."

He stroked the edge of the page with one white finger, drawing her eyes to him as he withdrew, brushing slightly against the fabric that covered her Dark Mark. She twitched.

The scarlet of his eyes darkened as she lifted her head to look at him, defiant in her betrayal.

He smiled. "Well done."


	17. Chapter 16

**Title:** Abyss (16)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 16**

His groans and her sighs filled the dark room like the sensual embrace of satin. His hands clenched at her arms above her head. She let out a soft, endearing cry and arched her back as he moved in her, and he kissed her roughly on her mouth, caressing her gasps with his own. Every time she was in his bed, she wished that she could be with him more often, but a man of his position… She held him all the more tightly, wrapping her legs around his hips and kissing him back like it was the last time. Soon, their passion culminated in a delicious climax, and they rode the orgasm out together.

"It's been far too long, love," he said into the shell of her ear before laving the sensitive skin under her jaw. "We should have done this weeks ago. Tell me you've thought of me."

"Always," she whispered back. He adjusted them so that he held an arm around her waist and pressed against her from behind. She missed the intense intimacy of their moment just before, but this was pleasant in comparison to her other men. Just companionship.

"Are you quite finished, Carmen?" Voldemort asked, lighting a lantern in the bedroom and pulling aside the curtains that hid the two lovers from view.

"Yes, my lord," Carmen answered a little breathlessly. He was not even surprised, although he could not deny that he was disappointed. "And it's still you I have to thank for it. And you, of course, Sarah." He grinned and kissed her cheek, her eyelids. "Sorry about the rush, darling, but I guess you have to leave. My lord requires my services at all hours."

"And coincidentally, you are awake when I want your services," Voldemort said. He leaned against the table on which the lantern burned and waited, staring unabashedly at them.

"I understand," Sarah said, grinning back at Carmen. She let Carmen slide away from her with the extraordinary strength in his arms. For all of his physical deformities, he was still an ardent, generous, and gentle lover. They had sex in the dark at his behest, not hers. As he put his tunic around his body and settled himself on his magic carpet, Sarah donned her own sheer robe and, stroking Carmen's cheek goodbye, left the two men to their activities.

Carmen looked at Voldemort in expectation.

Voldemort sneered at the scene he had just witnessed, but he set aside his disgust to reply, "I came here for you to ask me to share your dinner."

Carmen smirked. "I could invite her back, but generally I'm not inclined to share."

Voldemort sneered in the direction of the woman. "Not interested, Carmen. I've never understood your interest to form a lasting relationship with a girl of the Harem."

The old wolf flew to hover in front of Voldemort. "It's not going to last much longer if I don't have more time with her." Carmen did not even try to be subtle. "And I thought you had that thing with Bellatrix, or was that just a rumor?"

Voldemort began to laugh. "A rumor started by dear Bella. I admit that it is amusing to watch her try. Her husband would be the most satiated man on this side of the Atlantic if she did everything to him that she has tried to do to me. And in spite all the tortures as punishment for her insolence, she still persists. The woman is beautifully loyal, but I do not require such loyalty that she offers."

"It's not a matter of requirement," Carmen said. "Requirement is what you can find with a prostitute. Enjoyment is what you can find with a woman who wants to be with you despite some of your… less attractive traits. Sarah is both—she is something to hold and talk to—but my own Magda was…" His voice trailed off as he remembered the way his wife died. If that was the right word. He was there, chained and bleeding, when they killed her, when Grindelwald had his followers strip her of her skin. He choked back a rough sigh and brought his mind back to the present.

"And look what it's done to you," Voldemort said, dismissing the man's sorrow. "A distraction. A potential fatal distraction if it falls into the hands of those who might want to destroy you. I have no intention to start a pointless affair with Bella just for a sort of loyalty I have no use for."

Carmen cocked his head to indicate that Voldemort should follow him. "You've never had a use for it?" Carmen asked as he led the Dark Lord down the corridor of his own house adjoining and under the same protection as the fortress.

"When I was young, I had my times, but it was still a distraction—an intentional one. I no longer want or need that sort of distraction."

"I don't know whether you are to be admired or pitied, my lord. You're missing so much," Carmen said, finally reaching the dining room. "But to each his own—clearly you find your distraction in other things… a certain charming, intelligent young lady, I presume?"

Voldemort glared at Carmen from his place at the table. "I will one day have to kill you for knowing far too much for your own good. Do my Death Eaters think I have an unhealthy fixation, or is it just you?"

"Your Death Eaters do not know what to look for," Carmen said, indicating that his waiting house elf should begin serving. The house elf looked up tremulously at the Dark Lord, then hurried off to do his master's bidding twice as fast as he ordinarily would. "They are too preoccupied with their own distractions, or they are too blinded by your brilliance. You hide things well, but not well enough to fool me. Or not well enough for me to guess wrongly." He gave Voldemort a lopsided smile.

The food appeared on their plates, bypassing the salad and soup and heading straight for the meat. Voldemort sighed in pleasure as he saw the perfect, rare steak practically dripping with flavor. Carmen seemed to have the same taste in meat as the Dark Lord, drastically different from the majority of his Death Eaters. He closed his eyes to relish the first bite. When his red eyes opened heavy-lidded, Carmen pointedly ignored him, but he was hiding his laugh in his wine. Voldemort hissed lightly in half-hearted warning, but he continued his meal, and Carmen joined him in companionable silence.

The old wolf enjoyed his time with the Dark Lord because Voldemort was always so much more relaxed alone with him, although he was still very much the Dark Lord. Sometimes the similarities between he and Grindelwald made him pause. But Grindelwald was never as intelligent or ambitious as the younger man before him. Grindelwald could have a crowd on tenterhooks, but his politics were never quite as strategically sound as Voldemort's had been before his intentions were made clear. And Grindelwald had been killed early in his career. Voldemort was still alive after so long. They were very different men.

This comfort with the Dark Lord was the only reason he was sure he would not be hexed when he said, "Have you ever even considered kissing her?"

Voldemort set his fork down onto his plate. "Next time I have dinner with you," the Dark Lord murmured, "it will not be after you've finished making love to a whore. No."

"Ever considered considering it? She's a passable dish, and young at that. Not to mention she might be able to understand you when you start to ramble about variable vectors and spell wakes."

"Stop playing matchmaker, Carmen." Voldemort snorted slightly and lifted his fork again.

"It's been an age since you dined in my house, Lord Voldemort," Carmen chided. The use of his name startled Voldemort into locking eyes with the old wolf. "You came here because of the girl, and if it isn't because of a clandestine romance you don't dare tell your Death Eaters, I'd like to know why you're here—although I hope part of it is the pleasure of my company."

Voldemort took a pensive drink.

"I haven't seen you so obsessed with a member of the enemy since the Potter boy, except you would never be so kind with him as you are with the girl." Carmen gestured to the house elf standing surreptitiously in a corner. The house elf jumped to his task and cleared the table, preparing it for the dessert.

"Kind?"

"By your standards."

Voldemort laughed. "You mean keeping her alive and talking to her. I confess, I've been tempted to treat her in a less straightforwardly antagonistic manner."

Carmen leaned back in his chair. "You really do like her, don't you?"

"If she weren't a friend of Potter's, I'd consider properly inducting her. She's all Gryffindor nobility and morality, despite everything she has done for me, but…" Voldemort stared at the chocolate confection that had been placed in front of him by the cowering house elf. "Take a look at this," he said, sliding the book of her translations down the dining table. Carmen closed his hand on the binding and lifted it to his lap.

"This is Severus'," Carmen said, looking up in surprise. "I thought he wrote everything except inconsequential potions labels in code."

"She broke it. When she finally set her mind to decipher his writings, she broke it in less than an hour. Who else could do that, Carmen?"

"Besides you."

Voldemort waved that aside. "I cracked the code weeks before I gave the book to her. I wanted _her_ to translate it. But who else? Dumbledore could probably crack something Severus concocted in a matter of days or a week. Others, maybe weeks, months, even years. Not minutes, Carmen. This girl is extraordinary, and she has to be Potter's friend. Imagine if that brain power were added to our side."

Carmen read the introduction. "That must have stung her." His eyes passed over her even hand in admiration. "This is amazing. She's wasted on Dumbledore if she wasn't inducted into their Order earlier."

"They denied her because they didn't want her mixed up in the Dark Arts," Voldemort said with a half-smile.

Carmen choked on his chocolate in amusement. He read a few more lines, nodding slightly. He looked up to comment on one of Snape's observations when he noticed Voldemort's untouched plate. "Do you want your chocolate or does it still bother you?"

Voldemort Levitated his dessert to Carmen. Carmen set the book on the table. "What does this have to do with me?" Carmen asked.

"She isn't talking much. At all, actually. Draco Malfoy has brought her cat to her sometimes, and he keeps her company when I ask him to. But she doesn't talk to anyone. She's doing a few of the more difficult potions that do not require a wand." His white finger traced his chin gently as he sensed her working through the Dark Mark. Her focus was like warm water over cold skin—he wanted to soak in it. "She's only ruined one. She hasn't since, not after I came in and personally disposed of the remains. She does not ask what potions she brews. She knows anyway. And still the vials of the potions are unadulterated, neatly labeled, and put in the cupboard where they belong at the end of the week."

Carmen looked confused. "Are you worried about her?"

Voldemort looked up. "No. She has been quiet before. If she doesn't want to talk, she doesn't have to. I have not visited her since the ruined potion. Wormtail's Animagus and Draco are my eyes, and I occasionally see through Legilimency if I need to."

"So… why are you here?"

"I have an idea that will sound crazy, and my Death Eaters won't properly understand it. I want you to understand."

"I'm honored, my lord," Carmen murmured sincerely. "Though, if I may, should you not feel more comfortable telling your Death Eaters rather than someone who is not? No Dark Lord wants incompetence or possible mutiny in their highest ranks."

Voldemort smiled. "I think you'll know why I want to tell you before the Death Eaters when I explain. What I intend to do is… entirely unprecedented, but my plan is an ideal complement to her personality and status. My Death Eaters will have no trouble accepting my decision, but their comprehension of some of the subtler manipulations leaves something to be desired. Damn, I miss Severus sometimes. That man knew every nuance of a gesture, an expression, an idea. And he would understand what I plan to do with his 'Miss Granger.' When he was still my loyal Death Eater, he would have been the first to support the plan. As it is, Lucius and MacNair are the subtler of the ranks, and they are far too pureblood elitist to respond favorably in the beginning."

Carmen abandoned his dessert and floated to Voldemort's chair, leaning forward. "Now I'm intrigued."

Voldemort opened his mouth. Then he abruptly shut it and stood.

"Something's amiss," he muttered, and he stormed out of the room, his robes doing a remarkable impression of Snape's. Carmen tried to keep up with him.

The carpet stopped short when he saw Hermione on the floor of a corridor being beaten by Nott. The manic Death Eater had her broken chains in his right hand and was hitting her across the face, the breasts, the stomach with them, as though they were metal whips. When she cringed into fetal position on the floor, he would kick her in the back, causing her to open herself to assault again. Carmen was shocked in spite of himself. He knew how much the Dark Lord liked the girl, and to see her being treated like this, being beaten so crudely, was a sight that he would not have expected from one of Voldemort's own Death Eaters. Although Nott and Avery had a different role among the Death Eaters—trained for torturing the younger element of Voldemort's enemies—Carmen thought they knew no finger was to touch her without the Dark Lord's permission.

Voldemort was startled to see Hermione escaped from Snape's laboratory. But he recovered long enough to curse Nott away from her before he could do any irreparable damage.

"She was running, my lord," Nott whined, nursing the side of his head where he hit the wall. "She was running away. She was trying to escape from you, and I couldn't let that happen."

"So you decided to spoil her," Voldemort said coldly.

"I didn't mean…" Nott began.

"Then what did you mean to do?" Voldemort said. "Paint her like a picture? Beat her into submission after I specifically ordered that no one was to do anything to her beyond their expressed duties? Did it never occur to you that the girl could be apprehended without hitting her? Could you not understand that there is more to keeping a prisoner than covering her with bruises and broken bones? This girl is mine, and you dare to lay a finger on her? She bears the Dark Mark, the brand that _I_ gave her, and you dare interfere?"

"I'm sorry, my lord," Nott said, cowering. "I did not think…"

"No, you didn't. And I don't allow thoughtlessness in my Death Eaters." Voldemort unsheathed his wand and pointed it at the quivering man. "_Crucio._"

The Cruciatus Curse was short in comparison to what he might give to an enemy. Voldemort could not show any sort of fanatic favoritism toward the girl, so he was only punishing Nott for damaging property, not for damaging a girl with momentous potential within his grasp. He only hoped that Nott's work could be undone without a mark of disdain left on her body.

Nott was sobbing and kissing Voldemort's boots, slobbering sickeningly on the edge of his robes. Voldemort kicked him away.

"I trust that such a mistake will never happen again. I would hate to send one of my Death Eaters who isn't Wormtail into conditioning. It would be so degrading, wouldn't it, Nott, to be the equal of Wormtail?" Voldemort said softly, somehow making himself heard over Nott's keening. "And Hermione, you wouldn't have gotten far as you were, despite your schematic memorization of the fortress—I don't think you'll get much farther as you are now."

Hermione had struggled to her swollen hands and knees and tried to crawl away while Voldemort had his attention on Nott. Voldemort's face shifted into a more presentable countenance when she stumbled even on four feet. She fell to the ground, her eyes nearly shut with the red swelling around them, but still looking at him with fury.

"I should have seen this coming," Voldemort said, his wand now pointing at Hermione. "I suspected a desperate attempt soon, but not this soon. Nott, retrieve Draco from the laboratory."

Voldemort and Hermione did not shift their attention until Nott entered the corridor with a disoriented Draco Malfoy holding Nott's shoulder for balance. He was laughing despite the blood dripping down the back of his neck.

"And here I thought she had turned into a clawless kitten," Draco gasped through his laughter. "That's the second time you've hit me, Mudblood. You've still got more force behind that hand than I expected."

"It wasn't just my fist," Hermione said through puffy lips.

"What'd you use, a rock?" Draco released Nott's arm and dropped gracelessly to his knees.

"Yes."

Draco nodded with a tight smile as he tested the sensitive, rent flesh. He winced. "Where'd you find a rock?"

"It's a potions laboratory, Malfoy. The question would be: what couldn't I find there?"

Voldemort directed his order to Draco. "Go to the laboratory and find something there for your wound. If it doesn't work, I'm afraid there is nothing I am going to do for you."

Draco nodded—he knew better than to ask the Dark Lord to heal it with a wave of his wand. He had let Hermione escape. Even if Voldemort had been expecting it, he had no excuse for such an infraction. He used the wall as a crutch and made his way through the corridor back to the laboratory. He thought he knew where the healing potions were. He just hoped that the one he chose was not one of the adulterated potions or a hidden poison.

Voldemort did not sneer at the boy as he left. He rather liked Draco. Unlike his father, he was more solemn—even his humor was deadpan. He could never be subtle, but he could learn enough to be one of the best among his Death Eaters. He only hoped Lucius would not get his hands on the boy and fill his head with inaccuracies that would ruin him for good. Draco was not his father, but sometimes Lucius forgot that.

Draco, however, was not the issue at the moment.

"Carmen, can your carpet carry Hermione with you?" Voldemort asked, dismissing Nott with a gesture of his hand.

"Yes, my lord," Carmen answered, floating to the floor next to Hermione. "Come, lady, let me help you." He pushed himself to the edge of the carpet and braced himself with his thighs as well as he could. With gentle hands, he guided her onto the carpet. Hermione did not resist the opportunity to be treated like a human and yielded herself to his assistance. When she fell against him in a half-faint against the pounding of the fire all over her body, he held her head against his stomach. Her fingers gripped at the ends of what was left of his legs, right under the knees, but jerked back at the feel of the scar tissue. Instead she clenched the edges of the carpet as it lifted from the ground. Carmen could not resist stroking her hair, and she buried her face in his tunic. He could feel the dampness of the tears of pain she was trying to repress.

"Follow me." Voldemort led them to his chambers instead of taking her back to the laboratory. He did not look back to see whether Hermione was still awake—the assault to her head might have been concussive, but that could be remedied quickly, unlike internal bleeding. Internal bleeding required knowledge of how far the bleeding extended, how serious the bleeding was, and whether any vital organs had been torn. He was talented, but he was not a mediwizard, and his knowledge of medicine was shut in the dustier areas of his mind.

When he closed the door to his chambers behind them, he took the dangling chains and pulled her off the carpet. Her body fell onto the ground, and she cried out as she landed on her stomach. Carmen bit back a reproach, knowing that the Dark Lord would not take well to any sort of advice that he wanted to give. He was not much for the darker manipulations, but his loyalties demanded exposure to the very things against which he had fervently fought in his youth. Carmen knew that the Dark Lord measured every action he took, especially those he took with his obsessions. If this girl was the obsession Carmen thought she was, Carmen should avoid any and all attempts to interfere with Voldemort's gradual molding and shaping of someone he valued enough to spare his time.

"Stand up, Hermione," Voldemort said. "If anything is broken, I don't care. You can stand."

Hermione stumbled on the hem of her cloak—and she cried out as she fell to her knees again—but she managed to get to her feet, doubled over against the pain through her abdomen and on her back and face.

Voldemort slid a hand under her chin and lifted her face so that her bruise-framed eyes were looking into his.

"I shouldn't heal you," he said. "I should let you bleed and turn pretty colors. I should let Wormtail take you for another night. I should beat you myself. But I'm not going to do any of those things."

With his wand in hand, he carefully scanned every inch of her body. A trained mediwizard would be able to tell what was wrong with her in a second, but he had to consider all possible maladies and remedies, shuffling through them like a card index.

When he was still Tom Riddle and experimenting on himself, he had subjected himself to a great deal of curses and self-harm for the sake of advancement. Because a young boy could hardly show up to class bleeding from his ears and the tips of his hair, nor could he walk into the Great Hall with claws for nails and wings like a bat, he stormed the Restricted Section for antidotes and counters for the more extensive problems that arose with his dabbling. But he also needed to look up texts of the medical persuasion, if just to cure his ocular hemorrhages and gastro-intestinal rearrangements—and not to mention the ways to cure mutilation necessary for certain kinds of individual blood magic. After he became Lord Voldemort, many transfigurations and incantations later, he had a better instinct for experimentation… and other people on whom he could experiment without the need to heal them.

Healing Hermione certainly brought back memories. The tip of his wand stroked the rough material of Professor Snape's altered clothing, healing the flowering of darker color all along her body. She closed her eyes at the steady stream of relief bursting in little balloons of warmth from her knees to her face. There had not been enough time for the bruises to fully form, but the initial colors were there, only to fade with the restoring magic of the Dark Lord's administrations.

As the pain dissipated, Hermione was able to stand straight, her eyes fully open and lucid.

"Does anything else hurt?" the Dark Lord asked, withdrawing his wand and sheathing it in his robes.

"No," Hermione replied. She deliberately left out a title.

"Good," Voldemort said. He let his hand swing and connect with her cheekbone in a muffled slap. It would not leave a mark, but Hermione was startled nonetheless. Her face flushed red where his palm had struck her, and her face snapped to the side from the force of the blow.

Voldemort took advantage of the stunned Hermione and took her wrist in hand. Without malice or violence, he led her to a sitting area near the hearth. A crook of the finger indicated that Carmen should follow them. Like a gentleman, Voldemort helped Hermione into an armchair. The same hand that hit her touched the warm flesh, cooling it with his unnaturally cold skin—one more reminder that he was not just human, that he had been changed.

"Now," Voldemort said amiably, sitting in the armchair opposite, "how did you escape? And don't leave out any details. I'm curious how you managed to get as far as you did."

"You mean with the Death Eaters watching me?" Hermione said. "You ought to have had a spy that knew the difference between the ingredients of a Formidable Foe Potion and a Corrosion Concoction. Not one of your spies—I don't know how many—noticed that I was using different ingredients for different cauldrons."

"You burned through the chains," Voldemort said, sinking back in the chair and resting his chin on a hand. "Simple, effective. But you didn't burn through the spells on the door."

"Draco opened the door. I was waiting for him and hit him on the back of the head with the rock in my fist. I didn't know that I could hit that hard." Her lips curled in a wry smile. "I suppose motivation and petty vendettas help. In hindsight, I probably should have poured the rest of the Corrosive Concoction on his head." She looked up at Voldemort. "Anyway, you were right when you thought I memorized the way out of the fortress. I remembered how to get back to your chambers, and from your chambers, I had already figured out how to get outside from the initiation."

"And what did you think would happen when you were caught? Not just what I would do to you, but what the Death Eater that found you might do." Voldemort leaned forward, lowering his voice so that he could insinuate himself into her head. She tried to look away. She couldn't. "You are lucky that you only ran into Nott. He prefers the younger ones, younger than you are, although he won't say no to fresh meat. Avery doesn't care about what he takes into his quarters. And just imagine where I might have found you if Wormtail caught you first. Or Lucius. Did you think about that?"

"You've put me through the mill," Hermione snapped. "I doubt there was anything that your Death Eaters could have done that hasn't happened to me before. I can take it."

"You could have taken the full extent of your injuries if I hadn't healed you?" Voldemort asked. He raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Even Crabbe and Goyle had to correct the more severe blows you sustained on your first night with us."

Hermione did not answer, but she found she could not maintain their intense eye contact.

Voldemort settled more comfortably in the chair and let the pregnant pause hang in the air between them, let her think about what she could have done—or rather what she could not have done.

"You would have died, Hermione," Voldemort murmured, breaking the silence. "Nott knows where to hit. Women are abused all the time, but those with the most experience know exactly where to beat someone to keep others from knowing—or where it will kill. Your eye would have burst with all the blood rushing into it. You would have been infected from the inside. Your body would have blossomed with bruises from the internal bleeding. You wouldn't even recognize yourself. It would have only been a matter of time."

"I _don't_ owe you a life debt," Hermione said quickly. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in the situation in the first place."

Voldemort's mirth rippled through Hermione's dignity. "Blame is awfully difficult to place. There is plenty of blame with me… or Draco… or Wormtail… or you…" His grin broadened. "Or Dumbledore… or the werewolf that was once your professor… or Harry Potter."

"How is it Harry's…" she began indignantly, but she hesitated as she realized what he meant. She took a deep breath and tried to tamp down on her anger. "I was Harry's friend by choice. And if you hadn't targeted him, I wouldn't have been in the scene at all. It's not Harry's fault."

"And if you'd like to continue in the vein of fault," Voldemort said, warming to the topic, "analysts of certain schools might consider the way I am and the decisions that I made in order to become who I am today to be the result of my lack of a good father figure or the loss of my mother. Or an abusive orphanage. Or repressed memories of abuse. Or," he said with relish, "even better, it could be entirely society's fault. That would be a wonderful _Daily Prophet _headline—It's Our Fault."

"You're so full of crap," Hermione said.

Carmen held his breath.

"Excuse me?" Voldemort said.

"You're not as special as you think you are," Hermione muttered. Voldemort had to strain his ears to hear her. It seemed she realized exactly what she had said on impulse and was afraid of the consequences. Curses, long, slow torture, and the like struck her as appropriate. "Fifty or sixty years ago, this could have been you if some idiot got it in his mind that _he_ wanted to ruin everyone's lives and take over the world."

"Last time I checked," Carmen interjected, "he's male. There is no possible way he could have been in the same situation."

Voldemort and Hermione turned to him simultaneously and said, "Shut up."

Carmen swallowed a chuckle as they returned to their sparring.

"I'm just as special as I think I am," Voldemort said. "I'm a self-made man, Hermione. I've looked at myself in the mirror, in Pensieves, through other people's eyes. I have a vision. I wanted something when I was a youth, and now I am this close to having it."

"And a little boy keeps getting in the way," Hermione snarled.

Carmen winced as Voldemort almost unnoticeably tensed.

"Parseltongue. The similar cores in the wands. His mother's protection that I now carry in my own blood," Voldemort said, his temper held in check. "That is not Harry Potter. That is everyone else giving him power… including me. That was a mistake. I've made mistakes."

"People on such high profile," Hermione said, "can't make mistakes that large."

"I haven't made many, and I've survived them all. And I've taken so many of my enemies down, taken every last essence of their magic into my own. For every witch or wizard that I have killed, I took a bit of them into me—they imbue me with the last breath of their strength."

Hermione looked into the fire. "And you lose a bit of yourself in the process."

Voldemort tilted his head so that he could see her eyes again. "Perhaps. But the gain is ever so much more than what I lose in the Killing Curse. Excluding the Potter boy, of course. But I gained the knowledge that one or more of my immortality preparations worked."

She did not saying anything more. Voldemort saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. Old memories. Delicious. He wanted to take her tears and taste them.

He let her sit there in the armchair, slightly curled, holding the tears back, for a few minutes, letting her drown in nostalgia that she tried so hard to deny. Then he shifted, stood without any of the groans and creaks of his age.

"I'm sure you are still sore from the beating that Nott gave you," Voldemort said softly. "You are permitted to use my bath again. Take your time."

She did not face him, but she unfurled and walked straight to the bath. The door did not slam—there was barely a sound as it closed. He heard the water run. It was only when he could hear her sinking into the bath that he turned to Carmen.

"I'm glad she tried to escape now. I can do what I need to do—she wants so desperately to go home to her precious Harry and the Order of the bloody Phoenix." Voldemort held his smile in check, but Carmen could sense the welling excitement as Voldemort walked back and forth in front of the fire. "This will tear her apart."

The Dark Lord's repressed giddiness was contagious, and Carmen found his stomach tightening in anticipation. "What do you plan to do, my lord?"

"She will come back to me, openly and willingly," Voldemort continued, drawing out the moment. "She won't be able to bear it."

"What, my lord?"

Voldemort ceased his restless pacing and faced Carmen dead on. His smile was unrestrained and malevolent.

"I'm going to set her free."


	18. Chapter 17

**Title:** Abyss (17)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 17**

Voldemort had predicted his Death Eaters' reactions perfectly. The minute he told them that he was letting Hermione go, the room rumbled with protests, sneers, exclamations regarding his insanity, and aspersions on Hermione's parentage, character, and occupation. Wormtail looked shattered. The only people in the room who did not comment on Voldemort's idea were the young Death Eaters who had been initiated only a few months before, those who knew Hermione better than the supercilious Death Eaters who had only seen her as the Dark Lord's bitch.

Lucius was the first Death Eater to see the smirk on the youths faces. MacNair, who was standing next to him, was laughing like Voldemort had lost his mind. Lucius elbowed the other Death Eater's ribs and nodded at his son.

Then Draco broke ranks, causing even the most disdain-ridden Death Eater to turn and see what the man was doing. Draco's smile grew. Voldemort looked at him through one eye, his pleasure evident in the set of his mouth.

"None of you know Granger," Draco said, bowing his head to show respect to his master. "You are foolish to contradict our lord's plan, if only in words." He fell to his knees and offered his palms to the Dark Lord in submission. "How could you doubt him after he has spent so much time with the Mudblood? I was at Hogwarts when Dumbledore's Order was preoccupied with the girl. I heard speculations among the other students, and I heard the rumors, some vicious, some optimistic. Most thought she was dead. If she were to go back… Our lord knows what he is doing." Draco inclined his head, once again catching Voldemort's eye. "I support his plan."

The murmuring continued, but the tone was more agreeable after the explanation, more subdued, more frightened.

"From the lips of a child," Voldemort murmured, climbing down the steps that separated him from the Death Eaters. He drew his wand and held it over Draco's open hands. "Strange how one of the youngest of my _trusted_ Death Eaters had to enlighten you. You have a perceptive son, Lucius." Voldemort's eyes darted to the elder Malfoy. "I wish you had shown the prudence to exercise your own perception instead of focusing too heartily on blood when we have a chance at striking another real blow—with a Mudblood, but with a Mudblood who received more O.W.L.s than your son, just as this once-half-blood did, as I recall."

Lucius, while rankled by the Dark Lord's intentional insult and less than subtle challenge, accepted his chastisement. On second thought, the plan was an ingenious one—Lucius could see it plainly in his mind's eye as he replayed his own episodes with the Mudblood and how they would affect her when she was given back to the Order. So it was with a fatherly pride that he watched Voldemort promote Draco. The boy was going to be included in the next battle rather than act as a simple cat guardian and researcher.

Lucius was looking forward to fighting beside his son—the boy knew how to duel with as much finesse and ingenuity as force. On a battlefield, it would only be easier for him if he could see only the enemy and not the faces. Not because Lucius thought Draco would hesitate to kill someone he knew—Draco might lose his focus in a personal battle, as he had done with the Potter boy only five years before, and likely many times after, leaving his back open and vulnerable to attack.

"Now," Lord Voldemort said for all to hear, "this is not something that will happen right away. Immediate results are highly improbable—none of you are to comment on Hermione or the failure of the plan. Her realization may come after years of slow poison within her mind and, more potently, her heart."

"My lord," MacNair said, his countenance finally serious, "although I understand your logic and the benefit of having Hermione Granger on our side, what if she doesn't come back? What if she helps the Order all the more ardently?"

Voldemort gave an enigmatic smile. "The Order will never trust her like they did before I took her. If they believe her beyond reproach, a hint of doubt will give them pause, and they won't tell her what she should know; they won't ask for her help in case they are wrong. Even outside of the Order's hands, and with the taint of my Mark on her, she will never cause trouble against us—she can never be in a position powerful enough to do so."

"If I may, master," Lucius said, "the girl is resourceful and powerful in her own right, as you've said."

"Lucius, my friend," Voldemort replied, adjusting his cloak and returning to his throne, "as Slytherin as she can be, she is also a Gryffindor. Excluding Wormtail, what Gryffindor who has betrayed her best friends will collect herself enough to act as an opposing force?"

Wormtail looked up, the corners of his mouth turned down and his forehead creased. "My lord…"

"It was a half-compliment, Wormtail," Lysander whispered.

Wormtail bowed his flushed face and resumed his sulking over the loss of Hermione. He only hoped he would see her again and that she would not think he was as repulsive as everyone else seemed to once she was an official member of the Death Eaters.

---

Hermione was preoccupied by a nasty staring contest with the curtains hanging insolently from the four-poster bed. She stared so hard at the way the shadows mocked her along the crevices and folds of the burgundy fabric that the texture seemed to blur, turn into colored orbs that would laugh at her if they could.

She was not insane, but she felt better thinking that the inanimate objects had personalities. It made her stay in the Dark Lord's chambers more entertaining. For all the guilt associated in Snape's laboratory, at least she had something to do there, and now she wanted to continue _doing_ something. As it was, her _doing_ was limited. For heaven's sake, a house elf fed her—her limbs were completely immobile, shackled to the bed post. She had tried to break the bed post, but she guess either the wood or the chains were charmed with an Unbreakable, so she had only succeeded in shifting the bed maybe a centimeter from its original position.

She seriously considered shifting the bed out of the fortress, but the door might be the big problem. Someone would probably find her. And a bed is pretty conspicuous; it growled when it moved. Voldemort came in only once to do something in the bathroom. He had noticed that his bed was not in the same place it had been. She could see the laughter in his eyes, and with the wave of his wand, he Levitated the bed to its original place. Almost as quickly as he arrived, he left to wherever he went instead of sleeping, which she had seen him do maybe twelve times. She wondered if Nagini always knew where he was if she had to be milked—maybe calling over distances was a Parselmouth talent.

The curtain looked like it was shifting uncomfortably. Maybe her stare was finally getting to it.

_Wait, Hermione, snap out of fantasy land_, she told herself. Curtains moved when an outside variable moved them, like a breeze. Or a breeze caused by a person.

All too late, she whipped around to see the older Crabbe and Goyle advance on her. Crabbe swung his fist, catching her face just beneath the eye. Goyle complimented what would eventually be a shiner with quick hook into her stomach—it would bruise, and this time it seemed that there was no one to heal them.

The two hulks distracted her from the wizard standing casually in the doorway. He pointed his wand at the gasping girl on the floor.

"_Stupefy_."

Still gasping, she fell limp. With her panic lessened by unconsciousness, she caught her breath more quickly and soon lay sprawled on the floor like a doll; the Dark Lord spelled away her shackles. Voldemort jerked his head, indicating that the two men should follow him. Crabbe gathered her in one arm and threw her over his shoulder.

"To London," Voldemort said, and he Disapparated. Crabbe, carrying Hermione, and Goyle soon followed. They knew the place. Voldemort had shown them the specialized Apparition point a week ago.

An abandoned warehouse, condemned after a fire, a place where no one would think to look or stumble upon. There were arrangements for reconstruction, but nothing definite had been agreed upon among the contractors. Voldemort looked anachronistic in his robes and serpentine face among the charred crates and machinery of the Muggle world. He sneered at his surroundings, but his loathing for all things Muggle had to be set aside. His delight at the cunning of what he intended for Hermione overshadowed the dreariness of the warehouse.

The Dark Lord led the two men to a little nest of musty blankets with a small sack of food next to them and helped lower Hermione down to the floor. He arranged her so that she could be comfortable even in her state and situation, then stood.

"Go back to the fortress," Voldemort ordered Crabbe and Goyle. "I have eyes here to watch me." The two hulks shared a look like they still doubted the plan, but they also knew that their master was much cleverer than they were, and they did not have to agree with the Dark Lord—only obey.

When they were gone, Voldemort crouched down in front of Hermione, the dirt and dust and ash of the concrete smudging his robes. He disregarded the filth and touched Hermione's eyelids gently. It was time to let her go, time to give her what she wanted, time to give her back to the Order.

"_Enervate_," he said, his hand cradling her face.

Her body jerked awake. She blinked, looked up. The first thing she registered was not the Dark Lord, but the dirty warehouse ceiling. It was nothing that Voldemort would allow in the fortress—maybe she had been rescued. But then her eyes focused on the figure above her, and her hope fell to the cement and exploded in a shower of glass.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," Voldemort said.

Hermione's face twisted in bewilderment. She struggled to sit up and realized from the lightness of her wrists that she was no longer shackled. She held her hands to her eyes as if to confirm the obvious.

"I meant that literally." Voldemort sat next to her on the blanket nest, leaning back against the stack of crates against which the blankets nestled in what might have been the most unguarded action Hermione had ever seen him do. "You're not in the fortress. You are among people. Listen."

The silence of the warehouse fell away as she listened as hard as she could, honing her senses toward the sound that Voldemort was confident was there. She could hear the soft murmur of cars, people walking, the clamor of the proverbial marketplace, even the subtle vibration of the Underground.

"If you wanted to, really wanted to, you could leave right now, run away from me," Voldemort whispered into her ear, his voice magnified from her strain. "I wouldn't stop you."

She looked at him, still nonplussed. She would have run if she were not stunned by the sudden transformation of her captor.

"Of course, I would not recommend it," Voldemort said, returning to his original, languorous position. He closed his eyes. His face looked like it was carved from stone. "You have no shoes, no wand, no money, and you're wearing Severus' clothes, which might earn some odd looks. Not to mention that your eye is swelling up and you probably have bruised, if not broken, ribs. I'm not going to fix them. You'll just have to live with the injuries. Be glad they are not more permanent." With his eyes still closed, his right hand drifted to her left arm, clasped around her forearm where the Dark Mark began pulsing. It was not unpleasant, just odd, like a tic. Hermione felt like her mind split and lay open to the Dark Lord's subtle probing. She tried to clear her mind, but that seemed to make it easier for him.

"I have told you once," he murmured, "that you were extraordinary. I maintain the opinion."

His hand slid down her arm. The tips of his fingers trailed over her knuckles and to her nails before withdrawing.

"You are free, Hermione," Voldemort said, eyes flying open and locking with hers. "A few members of the Order will be here in four hours to retrieve you."

He got to his feet and began to walk away. He hesitated as he felt her hand close around his wrist like he had often done to her. He glowed underneath his stoic exterior.

"Wait," Hermione said, "I don't understand. You're leaving me here for the Order? Just leaving me here? Just like that?"

"I've had all the use from you that I can take," Voldemort said. "All that is left is to kill you. And the world is more interesting with you in it, for both sides of the war."

He extracted his wrist from Hermione's grasp, gave her one last look, and left. Without another word, without a single explanation, just left.

It was almost anticlimactic.

Except she knew this was some new plot. Were there Death Eaters waiting for Voldemort's signal to torture her en masse? Was he leaving her there to starve? She noticed the sack next to her, looked inside, and immediately dismissed the second idea—a simple meal, just one, but food nonetheless. Well then, was he just trying to raise her hopes again, have her on tenterhooks as she waited for the Order?

Or was the Order really coming? Was he telling the truth? Or was it an elaborate hoax and he would appear four hours later with the patronizing smile on his face, eyes glittering with mirth?

His words about the Order's distrust of her motives after seeing the Mark surfaced—everything he had ever said about how she could never be with the Order or with Harry and Ron and her other friends after everything that she had been through, everything she had done, after the Mark on her arm, his brand. She shivered against the cold and tightened Snape's cloak about her, pulling the blankets closer.

She did not know Voldemort's game, but she was just going to wait. There was nothing else to be done. She could not very well go out in her garb and bare feet in the late winter weather. She sniffed, curling slightly so that her side was against the crates. Beyond the musty, industrial smell of the warehouse, the wind brought in the smell of the city outside. Among the myriad of typical city aromas and the persistence of winter, she could smell spring. Once again, a tendril of hope unfurled in her chest, and she closed her eyes. Maybe the hope would be crushed… maybe not. Maybe the Order would not trust her, but anything would be better than Voldemort and Wormtail and Lucius and Nott and Draco and everything else. Anything.

Surely they would remember her as she was.

---

A select few of the Order, including Lupin, Moody, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, stood in the Headmaster's office. Harry, Ron, and Ginny were next to Dumbledore, flanked by Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall. They were all staring at the center of the room, where six trunks were piled precariously amongst shattered glass.

"Just came here?" Moody growled. "Floated in the window?"

"Through the window, actually," Lupin said. "The sound woke me from a nap." He nodded at a large window on the other side of the office. "I repaired them as soon as I realized what happened. Well, removed them, but Albus can put them together again."

"Why did you call _us_ here, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"Looks like a load of trunks to me," Ron added, straining his neck, searching along the stretched leather cases for something familiar that might indicate the importance among trunks that seemed unobtrusive and plain and totally a waste of N.E.W.T. study time over which both he and Harry were frantic—without Hermione's nagging, they had not started soon enough and found the prospect of failing the N.E.W.T.s on which their entire career rested more than heart-clenching. Even in the midst of war, they had to go through the motions. They wanted to go through the motions instead of think about the storm on the horizon, instead of think about the casualties, instead of think about Hermione and the empty space where she had been that widened with each passing day.

Professor Snape let out an impatient sigh. "Being afraid of them is not going to tell us why they are here." He stepped a bit closer to the stack. Professor Dumbledore held out a hand, as though he was going to stop Snape, but he let the imposing Potions Master approach the trunks. Snape reached into the middle of the stack and pulled out a pet cage. Inside glared a ginger tom with bandy legs and a grouchy face. He gave a meow of annoyance and stumbled to his feet, gathering his balance despite the way the cage rocked up in the air.

"Crookshanks!" Ron said, running forward and snatching the cage from Snape. "Hermione…"

"Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said softly, but still with a subtle force behind the voice, "please put the cat down. I doubt he has been charmed with an Eruption Hex, but certain issues still need to be accounted for."

Ron's eyebrows drew together in both frustration and confusion, but he put the cage on top of the nearest trunk and retreated back among Harry and Ginny.

"Earlier, I was given a letter via owl, one of the Ministry's owls, that bore Voldemort's signature—the owl was either stolen or the property of one of Voldemort's followers on the inside." Dumbledore took a small slip of parchment from his robes and read aloud, "Take her. Lord Voldemort."

"Short and to the point, without even excluding the title," Snape said, sneering. "But how are we supposed to take her? Is she in one of the trunks? If she is, I swear I'll hex her myself."

Harry whipped out his wand. "Hermione is…" he began.

"A traitor, Potter," Snape snarled, unfazed by Harry's ire. "I saw it myself."

"And your accounts are always so truthful, I'm sure we can trust them completely," Harry said, practically spitting. "You've never liked Hermione—you've been insulting her since first year."

"I've never liked you—in fact, I could say without shame or remorse that I loathe you, and you would have been expelled from Hogwarts six years ago if I had a say in the matter—but, as enjoyable as the ensuing chaos might be, I've never accused you of joining the Dark Lord," Snape retorted.

"Hermione would never…"

"She taught herself the Dark Arts behind the Order's back," Snape said. "I think that qualifies as something Miss Granger would _never do_ that was against the Order in every sense of the idea, not to mention against the law."

"She only did it because she wasn't allowed in," Ron interjected.

"Don't be so naïve," Snape spat. "A girl like her, with her intelligence, with her persistence, and with a convenient kidnapping just as her Dark Arts activities were become more and more involved… Even a girl who wasn't intending for the Arts to take her over would have succumbed."

"Just because you were a Death Eater doesn't mean that everyone makes the mistakes you did," Harry replied, the tip of his wand still level with Snape's eyes.

"Harry," Dumbledore said. "Severus. That is enough. Remember what I said, Severus, innocent until proven guilty."

"Don't give me that righteous nonsense, Headmaster," Snape said, "you're just as worried that she turned as everyone else thinks. I'd go as far as say that you _fear_ her embrace of the Dark Arts and her initiation as a Death Eater."

"What I think and what I fear or worry are quite different from each other, Severus," Dumbledore replied. Snape crossed his arms, but he did not comment again. "I do not, however, know how to retrieve Hermione if Lord Voldemort does not tell us how to find her. And I do believe that he will give her to us, if all of this is any indication." He gestured to the trunks.

"Unless he just wanted to rub her in our faces again," Lupin pointed out. "He _has_ been quiet about her lately. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried ruffling our feathers."

"I am afraid, Headmaster, that I agree with the werewolf," Snape said.

"Why not just say he's mocking us? He likes to tease," Ginny murmured, looking at the twitching tail of Hermione's cat.

Kingsley Shacklebolt snorted. "Of course he's mocking us. Albus, I have it on Auror authority that she is not to be trusted. I may still be on the Black case, but that doesn't mean I don't have access to other files."

Dumbledore turned his attention to Shacklebolt and stared piercingly over his half-moon glasses. "You have supporting evidence?"

Shacklebolt nodded, grim as a gravestone.

Moody shook his head. "Shacklebolt shared the details with me, and as much as it galls me, Snape's suspicions aren't misplaced.

"Aurors are authorized for interrogation, including Veritaserum, when she is apprehended," Shacklebolt added.

Dumbledore digested the information. "I want her here first, if she is indeed set free," he said finally. "Voldemort and his followers have been known to stage betrayal. I want her account, directly from her mouth and not under the influence of Veritaserum."

Shacklebolt bowed his head in acquiescence.

"What if she _has_ turned Dark?" Ginny asked. "What if it's a trap for her to infiltrate the Order?"

"I refuse to believe it," Lupin said quietly. "Call me optimistic…" He raised an eyebrow at Snape. "But I still believe that, whatever Hermione has been through, whatever she has done, she is still on the right side, or can be redeemed. How would you have liked it if we all had your level of faith when you came to Albus?"

Snape bared his teeth, prepared to lash back with an appropriate insult.

"Remus is right, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, laying a hand on Snape's arm. "However, I am prepared to listen to both Hermione's testimony and Auror evidence, if that is any consolation."

Suddenly, Snape convulsed and doubled over, clutching his left arm to his stomach. Professor McGonagall cried out and rushed to his side, holding him steady.

"The Dark Lord is calling me," Snape said. "But why…?"

"I think we know who is going to collect Miss Granger," Lupin said softly. "And you aren't going alone. I'm coming with you."

"Get away from me, wolf," Snape snarled. "When the Dark Lord summons, you go alone."

"You are no longer under Voldemort's employ," Dumbledore said. "I think Remus should go with you. And Alastor, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. Kingsley can go…"

"No," Moody growled. "If it turns out to be a trap, I'll be more than a match for them long enough for Snape and Lupin to get Miss Granger out… or to kill her." He clasped a heavily scarred hand around Snape's arm. Lupin mirrored him on the other side.

"I want to go," Harry said. "If Hermione's hurt…"

"I want to go, too," Ron added. "No way we're going to let her be rescued by anyone but her best friends. We owe her that much."

"She needs us there," Harry said.

Dumbledore shook his head. "No. She needs you here. She will be brought here straightaway as soon as Remus, Severus, and Alastor are sure of her safety from Voldemort and his followers—_no matter_ if she is friend or foe, Alastor. Bring her _here_. Unharmed, if you can."

Snape bit his cheek as the pain in his Mark increased. "Any day now, Headmaster," he said through clenched teeth.

"Good luck," Dumbledore murmured. Snape, Lupin, and Moody, forming an odd, antagonistic trio, staggered from the Headmaster's office to reach the edge of the grounds as quickly as possible.

"Hope for the best," the Headmaster said, sitting down behind his desk. His eyes had lost all their luster. _Hermione, I don't know what to believe_, he thought. He set his chin on his hands, and the entire room waited.

---

Hermione did not know how long she had waited. She did not know whether she was asleep or awake. She thought she heard squeaking noises from behind the crates, but that could have been her imagination. She thought she heard whispers, thought she saw eyes, the twitch of a foot or a finger with her peripheral vision. She felt like she was drifting, like the world was rushing past her, abruptly turning on its axis. She could not smell spring, or even winter now. She could not hear the sounds of the city that Voldemort had told her to hear. Maybe she had only heard them because she had wanted to hear them. Or because he told her to.

The Order was not going to rescue her. It was a cruel joke that turned her hollow. Voldemort was not even going to come back for her. She was just going to lay there in the midst of the dirty blankets, like a rat, and slip slowly into death. Voldemort _had_ finished with her, but he certainly was not going to give her back to the Order. No, this was the way to kill her—slow, alone, friendless, in an empty building, unknown, traitor. She felt sick, disgusted with herself. Voldemort finally destroyed her, and this time it would be for good because she did not want to get up anymore. She deserved to die this way.

When she heard voices again, she dismissed them as part of her twilight, part of her haunted dreams that slipped in and out. Even as they grew louder, calling her name, she covered her head with the cloak. The Death Eaters had come. They would have their fun with her, torture her until she collapsed, then hit her simultaneously with the Killing Curse. Such death would be a mercy then.

She thought she recognized the voices as they drifted nearer. That voice could easily be Professor Lupin's. And that rough, gravelly bark, that could be Moody. And who could forget Professor Snape's sharp tongue that she had heard so often in potions class. That was when she knew she was dreaming. The Order could not be there for her. It was too good, and good had not visited her lately. She discounted the hands that grabbed her arm, her hip, her ear until they found the edge of the cloak and pulled it away from her face.

"Hermione." A whisper, and then hands lifted her up, into a pair of arms. Not like Crabbe. Cradled like a child. She kept her eyes shut. Maybe the dream would continue, and she could have five more minutes of peace like this.

"This is too easy." Moody's growl. He was right. That's why it was a dream. "There's bound to be a trap somewhere. Maybe the girl is faking. She'll curse you for sure, Lupin, if you aren't more careful."

"No, she won't," Lupin said. "She must be asleep. Her breathing is so even. Heart rate doesn't seem to be picking up."

"You're far too trusting. It's still too easy," Snape said. "Nothing is supposed to be given to us. The Dark Lord doesn't work that way. There is something else, some other plan he has. An ambush."

"Well, the trunks were just given to us," Lupin replied mildly. "Maybe it was meant to be simple to make us suspicious."

"They're doing a fine job of it," Moody muttered.

"Professor Lupin?" Hermione breathed, almost not daring to believe it.

"Hermione?" Lupin said, his voice betraying his eagerness. "Are you all right?"

"Are you taking me home? Am I dreaming?" Her eyes fluttered, and she felt warm breath on her face.

"We're going back to Hogwarts," Lupin said gently. "We just need to get to an Apparition point."

"As long as you don't make a fuss, Miss Granger," Moody interrupted.

"Alastor," Lupin chided.

Moody snorted, but they continued their escape without any obstacle at all, not even a rogue curse. Both Moody and Snape were on high alert. Hermione's eyes were open, everything around her fuzzy and dark through her eyelashes. A rush of cool, fresh air hit her face like a soft wall, and she breathed it in, her first free breath for months. The sounds that she had thought she heard with Voldemort augmented until they were almost unbearable against her ears.

"Say, sir, is that girl all right?" asked a concerned passer-by. Moody turned his face away from the woman, and Snape stepped quickly into the waiting taxi. He glared at Lupin, who was the only one among them comfortable with Muggle habits.

Lupin gave the woman a wry smile. "A few of my daughter's friends thought it would be terrific fun to spend the night in the warehouse. She has asthma and the dust… well, she's fine now, but exhausted."

The woman nodded in empathy, then continued about her business.

"Never knew you could lie so well without blushing like a Gryffindor," Snape said when Lupin joined he and Moody in the taxi.

"Let's just get Hermione back to Hogwarts," Lupin whispered. "She seems a bit in shock."

"Could be a clever ruse," Moody said.

"Alastor, please. Innocent until proven guilty." Lupin stroked Hermione's hair. She twitched against his tenderness, and Lupin quickly withdrew his hand. She found herself closing her eyes, succumbing to the wonderful dream that was no doubt going to be ripped from her again, but she would hold onto it for as long as she could.

Before her eyes were completely closed and the taxi drove off, she caught a silhouette that she recognized so well in a lit window of the warehouse. It raised its hand to her in farewell. She trembled,

So Voldemort had truly set her free. For better or worse, he set her free.


	19. Chapter 18

**Title:** Abyss (18)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 18**

She was brought back by the Order, Lupin providing her with the sincere security that had been so lacking before. Her head nestled in the hollow beneath his shoulder, and she could close her eyes and be safe. There was going to be no more bruises and ghosts of bruises and broken bones. No more hands over her body, slick with sweat, the disgust in her belly roiling against the unnaturalness of her situation. No more pets and praise for her little betrayals. Just the safety of the life she had known.

She shivered with the sensation of double Apparation, but the sight of Hogwarts on the other side of the entrance gates spread warmth to the tips of her fingers and toes. They hurried up the hill. Hermione wanted to help. She would have been fine running with them without being a burden. But Lupin told her to rest, he would take care of everything. She needed to be examined before they would be comfortable with her walking and doing magic.

The prospect of doing magic made her grin, the memory of the heady magic flowing from her hand into a wand. Did they have her wand? She could always buy another. She did not know where she was going to get the Galleons, but she would worry about that later.

Professor Dumbledore was waiting for their arrival at the open doors of Hogwarts. His eyes twinkled merrily and he beckoned them in.

"Madam Pomfrey is waiting for her," Dumbledore said. "Go straight to the infirmary."

It seemed to take no time at all from his command to the infirmary. Maybe she had drifted off again. She had never noticed how big the infirmary was. She had either been unconscious or preoccupied by Harry or Ron or by her own maladies. Madam Pomfrey ushered them into her office.

"Remus, put the girl down," Madam Pomfrey said. "She can walk into my office. And you're not to follow or peek in." She stared pointedly at Moody, who harrumphed. "There might be sensitive matters discussed between women. _No_ spying." Pomfrey put an arm around Hermione's shoulders and led her into her office. Professor Dumbledore was there, his eyes cold and hard, so different from the twinkling that she had seen minutes before.

"Are they outside?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes. They're going to keep Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley away. Hopefully, they'll think it's just a routine questioning by a nurse. That will give us enough time."

"Good." Dumbledore took Hermione's arm in a tight hand and pulled her forward, behind Pomfrey's desk where a trapdoor was open. She could see fire.

"Where the betrayers go," Dumbledore explained, and he pushed her in.

She had been here before. Unseen hands, fire light flickering against stones, echoes of her friends and enemies ricocheting off each other so that the words reduced themselves to tangled gibberish. She could hear the others like her, the same tortured screams of other in Ignorance. And all too soon, she was joining them with her keening plea for forgiveness that went unheard.

---

When Hermione woke, it was dark. She was in a room, she knew that. She saw the vague outlines of the stone walls and a desk in the corner. She was on her back in a bed. Disoriented and wary of what a bed meant, she sat up quickly looking around for clues that could tell her where she was.

Looking behind her, she saw nothing but a bedside table with a vial of clear liquid sitting on a thin rag. There was no lamp. Taking in her surroundings as a whole, the room was spartan, intended only for one person. There was no knob on the inside of the only door in the room. Although she had clearly been put into the bed with her head on the pillow, she had rolled so that she lay at the foot of the bed. She had no doubt that if she had been asleep any longer, she would have found herself on the floor. She was not even sure whether she wanted to stay in the bed now. Not if she was in Voldemort's fortress again.

She remembered the Order taking her out of the warehouse, but that had slipped easily into that awful nightmare, the nightmare that reminded her so much of the nightmare Voldemort had given her. It was entirely possible that the memory she interpreted as reality was only part of a vivid dream or a hallucination that Voldemort had staged.

She shivered and slid from the bed, her bare feet jerking at the coolness of the stone. At least the rest of her was clothed. Whoever had brought her here, wherever she was, they had not removed her clothing. But she refused to lift her hopes and think for a second that she was with the Order and at Hogwarts, like Lupin had said. Lupin could have been a simple spell or a Death Eater in disguise, or a Death Eater who she told herself was Lupin because she wanted it so badly, so she had seen who she wanted to see. She should have known better than to think, even wish, that Voldemort had set her free.

She still had no idea where she was.

In the manner to which she had grown accustomed whenever she knew someone would have to come, she leaned her back against the bed, brought her knees to her chest, and waited for whatever new terror Voldemort devised for her.

So she was understandably surprised when the room filled with light and the door opened, revealing apparently real Remus Lupin and Madam Pomfrey.

"Heavens, child, what on earth are you doing on the floor?" Madam Pomfrey chided, grabbing her under the arms and helping her to her feet. "You need to be in bed. I don't think you had anything worse than a few bruises, but that doesn't mean that after everything you've been through you shouldn't have your proper rest."

Hermione stared at them, as though reassuring herself that they were the people she remembered and not figments of her imagination. Madam Pomfrey's hands felt substantial, and her tone was brisk and no-nonsense, the same chirping it had always been. She did not want to go back into the bed, but she let Madam Pomfrey tuck her in anyway, aware of Lupin's scrutinizing gaze on her. She knew he was trying to see, like her, if she was the Hermione he remembered.

"How long have I been asleep?" Hermione asked.

"Five hours," Lupin answered, conjuring a chair and sitting beside her while Madam Pomfrey bustled about her, adjusting the pillows and giving her the vial of liquid to drink. She wrinkled her nose. Enervating Elixir was all well and good, but it made her jump and the aftertaste was like chicken feet—at least that was what Hermione likened it to, although she had never tasted chicken feet. "Which means that you likely aren't a Polyjuice copy. We didn't think you would be, but Alastor wanted to be certain. So you're in the isolation ward in the infirmary—hopefully a student won't contract some highly contagious curse in the near future. I knew it was you, though. Polyjuice doesn't hide the real person's original smell, only overlaps it with the person they Polyjuice into."

"You are real, aren't you?" Hermione said. "This isn't… I mean… I'm really in Hogwarts?"

Lupin smiled gently. "Yes, Hermione, you are at Hogwarts. You are in the care of the Order."

In spite of herself, she leaned into the pillow. There had been no deceit in his voice. It still seemed like an elaborate fantasy, but she did not care anymore. If this was reality, she could relax. If this was fantasy, she hoped it never ended.

"How… what day is it?" Hermione asked.

"April the sixteenth," Lupin replied. "It has been a long time since..."

Hermione did not have anything to say to that. Almost an entire school year lost. Stolen away from her.

"How do you feel, Hermione?" he asked. If anyone else had asked, it would have been awkward and insensitive, but the earnestness behind his eyes revealed his true concern.

"I feel like I've walked into another world," she said, looking down at her hands and thinking every word through. "Like I'm different and nothing here has changed. Like it will slip through my fingers at any moment, like this relief I feel will only make me fall farther when it's taken from me. But I'm…" She stumbled with 'happy' and 'glad.' "I'm content to be back."

The door to the ward opened, hitting the wall with a bang. "All right, Remus," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, "it's time for us to ask her what we need to."

"And enough with this coddling," Moody growled. "We know she's not Polyjuiced, but we don't know anything else. This could be a trap in too many ways. And you know the evidence…"

"Now is not the time," Lupin said, standing before the Aurors. "She has only just woken up."

"No time like the present," Moody said. Tonks led Madam Pomfrey out of her office—under severe protest that her patient should not be disturbed. "We'll call you back in if everything's clear. You can listen outside if you need to."

"Before I leave, I would like to make it official that I think this is a grave mistake," Lupin said. He backed out of the room, maintaining eye contact with a thoroughly confused Hermione until the door shut in front of him of its own accord.

"Please drink this, Hermione," Tonks said, handing her a small tube. Hermione could not see its contents, but she knew better than to take something without knowing what it was, especially when the people administering the potion were looking at her like the Aurors of the Order were doing. "By authority of the Ministry. Sorry."

"I thought we hated the Ministry," Hermione said, shrinking back against the pillow to avoid the progress of the vial toward her mouth.

"We do, don't worry about that," Tonks said. "Just procedure, you know."

"What is it?" Tonks sounded reassuring, but that was not making Hermione feel any better. Procedure for what?

"Veritaserum, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt said. "If you have nothing to hide, then there is no reason to panic."

"But…" Hermione began, sitting up indignantly. She would have known how to counter his argument, but Tonks took advantage of her open mouth and poured the serum in. Hermione choked, swallowing unconsciously, then fell back against the pillow, eyes deadened and mouth slack.

Moody stepped forward to bark a question, but Shacklebolt stopped him with a hand. "Ministry Aurors, Alastor, not retired Ministry Aurors. If you have any questions at the end, we'll let you ask them."

Moody's ordinary eye narrowed with annoyance, but he allowed Shacklebolt to take the lead.

"All right, Miss Granger," Shacklebolt said. "You'll remember everything I ask you when we give you the antidote, but these are routine interrogation questions regarding your suspicious acts that have caught the attention of the Ministry as well as the Order. This will be as dry as possible, not confessional, just answering questions as briefly and succinctly as possible. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hermione responded in a monotonous tone. Tonks winced at seeing Hermione like this. Shacklebolt noticed her reaction and put a hand on her shoulder in support. Tonks was young, but she needed to learn about interrogation, especially with the brewing war.

"Will you adhere to my guidelines?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll begin." He sat down in the chair that Lupin had conjured and took out a piece of parchment from a bag that he held in his hand.

"Have you, in fact, been engaged in Dark Arts activities?"

"Yes."

"When did you begin?"

"Two years ago. My fifth year."

"What did you do?"

"Caused a girl to erupt in boils when she broke a contract," Hermione said.

Tonks shook her head and muttered to Shacklebolt, "We know about that. That was for the DA; they had to learn a certain degree of Defense. I think even Harry would be guilty of using some forms of the Dark Arts. More specific."

"When did you begin learning the Dark Arts on your own, independently of the Order and the DA?" Shacklebolt amended.

"Sixth year, after I was denied from the Order, and Harry and Ron were not."

"Why?"

"I felt left out. I knew that I could do it. To help."

Shacklebolt's forehead wrinkled in concentration as he digested what she had said. "So you taught yourself Dark Arts to help the Order?"

"Yes."

"How would learning the Dark Arts help the Order?" Tonks asked after she raised an eyebrow for permission to speak.

"To learn the counters to Dark potions and curses."

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It was exhilarating. New knowledge. A way to help even if the Order did not know."

"Did you enjoy the Dark Arts because of their darkness?"

"Yes. Different. Powerful. Challenging."

"Was it for you or for the Order?"

There was a pause as even the Veritaserumed Hermione had to think. "Both."

"What Dark Arts did you engage in?"

"Curses, hexes, potions."

"Which ones?"

"The Confundus Curse, the 13th Jinx, the Wailing Curse, the 8-legged Hex, Serpent's Bath, the Fang-Flinging Hex, Venemous Secretions, the Hypnotist's Charm, the Hex of Delight, Melancholia, the Suicide Curse, the Elephant Jinx, the Nightmare Curses, the Pleasure Principle, Lip Locker, Harlot's Hex, Abriola Charm, Gut-wrenching Potion, the Draught of the Living Dead, the Slow Death, Monstrous Draft, the Love Potion, the Nightmare Potion…"

The Aurors' eyes grew progressively wider as she listed off the illegal or forbidden charms and potions.

"Did you practice these arts on a human being?" Moody interrupted.

"Yes."

Tonks turned white. "On who?"

"Myself, if I needed to. Other potions and curses already had an antidote, and I perfected them."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"Did you know that the use of these curses, hexes, and potions was illegal?" Shacklebolt said, shooting cautionary glares at Moody and Tonks.

"Yes."

"And you used them anyway. Why?"

"The Order is illegal. Sometimes laws must be broken."

"She has a point," Tonks muttered. "In for a penny…"

"Get on with it, Shacklebolt," Moody said. "_Voldemort_."

"All right," Shacklebolt said to Hermione, ignoring Moody. "When did you first meet Voldemort?"

"Sixth year, in the Forbidden Forest. I didn't know he was Voldemort. He was wearing a cloak."

"Did you engage in any Dark activities with him?"

"Yes."

Tonks shook her head. "Damn, this girl really got in deep."

Shacklebolt was shaken, but he continued. "Why did you leave with Voldemort in this school year?"

"He took me. I didn't leave. He gave me a Nightmare Potion that I brewed and brought me to what seemed like a dungeon or a secret room in a dungeon. Maybe connected to the Chamber of Secrets."

"Voldemort was in the school?" Moody asked incredulously.

"He was the snake."

"What snake?" Shacklebolt said. "And if you say anything else, Alastor, I'm afraid you'll have to go outside."

"Belthazar. I did not know he was Voldemort. He just looked like a snake. I confiscated him from Draco Malfoy. I tried to give him back to the menagerie, but they wouldn't accept him. If I gave him to an Auror, he might have been put to sleep. So I brought him to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore told me to keep him. I kept him for ten weeks."

Tonks whispered, "Albus let her keep him. Did he know?"

Shacklebolt shrugged. "Possibly," he whispered back. "Would certainly be a way to keep an eye on him if he was Voldemort and a way to keep a snake alive if he wasn't."

"Still," Tonks said. "Bit dodgy."

"Yes." Shacklebolt directed the next subject question at Hermione. "We have hearsay and substantial evidence for questionable activities while you were in Voldemort's possession. Severus Snape says that you had sexual relations with Death Eaters. Did you?"

"Yes."

"Willingly?"

"Sometimes."

Tonks' face twisted in confusion.

"Were you raped?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever give sex willingly?"

"Yes."

"Maybe she was raped to begin with and it progressed… ew." Tonks stuck out her tongue at the thought.

"With whom did you have sex unwillingly?"

"Peter Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy. Maybe more when I was unconscious/"

"Considerably more than I wanted to know," Tonks muttered.

"You'll need to keep comments to a minimum, Tonks," Shacklebolt said. "You're allowed to question, but biases must be kept out of the interrogation if possible." To Hermione, "With whom did you have sex willingly?"

"Peter Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy."

"Probably progression," Tonks said.

"Top or bottom?" Moody snapped.

Veritaserumed Hermione had to decipher the question before answering, "Both."

"Dominant," Moody said. "She did it willingly, the slut."

It seemed the Shacklebolt was drawing the same conclusions, and he went into another subject. "Can you tell us anything new about the Dark Lord's hidden fortress?"

"No. Professor Snape knows everything I know."

Tonks cursed in frustration.

"What were you to Voldemort?"

"A pet. An amusement."

"Did you obey his commands?"

"Yes."

"That could apply to a prisoner," Tonks said weakly.

"Did you actively work against the Order and the Ministry when you obeyed him?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Yes."

"Merlin on a second-rate broom," Moody breathed.

"Did you brew these potions for him?" Shacklebolt reached into the bag and pulled out broken flasks and vials of potions labeled in Hermione's neat, precise hand.

"Yes."

"What else did you do for him to directly work against the Order and the Ministry?"

"Decrypted Professor Snape's journal and gave him the full translation."

'She decrypted one of Snape's codes?' Moody mouthed. "Imagine that mental power in Voldemort's hands," he said aloud.

Shacklebolt was practically shaking, not with anger, but with shock and even a bit of fear.

"Give her the bloody antidote," Tonks said. "I'm not sure I want to hear any more."

"Just a few more questions," Shacklebolt said. "Why did the Dark Lord give you back to us?"

"I don't know. I'm beginning to suspect."

"What do you suspect?"

"So that I could come back to him."

"An informer," Moody said. "This is enough. We have heard enough."

"You're right," Shacklebolt said, reaching into his pocket for the antidote. He held it to Hermione's slack jaw. "This is enough. She's clearly not to be trusted."

He poured the contents of the vial into her mouth. Her head fell to the side as the antidote slid thickly into her stomach.

There was a banging on the door before it burst open with the force of a violent wind spell. "Don't feed her the antidote!" Professor Snape yelled. "Damn it! You were asking the wrong questions and now… I should have known that Auror interrogation with Veritaserum would lack the subtlety necessary for the potion. Miss Granger," he said, reaching for her shoulder, "I need to ask you a few more questions…"

Her eyes opened just as she saw his hand reaching for her, and she reacted like she would with any Death Eater now that she knew she was free. She jerked back and fell out of the bed. Her feet scraped on the floor trying to back away. Bits and pieces of the interrogation were coming back to her, and her eyes widened.

"No," she whispered. "No. I didn't… I'd never… it was all wrong… you… you don't know what I've been through… it was all wrong…"

"Anyone with any _intelligence_," Snape snapped the word out at the Aurors, "could hear that, Miss Granger. I'm not going to…"

"Last time I saw you, you looked like you wanted to kill me," Hermione babbled, "but it wasn't me, Voldemort had me under a new form of Imperius he created, Sensitimperius, and I had to kiss Wormtail and take Lucius' hands all over me… and you had to watch… and I could hear how angry you were… I could see you thought I had joined him… you were so angry and I was screaming in my head that it wasn't me you were seeing… it was like I knew everything going on but I couldn't stop it… you have to believe I wasn't there… I wasn't doing anything… it was all the Dark Lord… it wasn't me…"

Lupin had entered the room after Snape and he, too, looked furious. He yelled over Hermione's cries at Shacklebolt and Moody and Tonks, "Severus is right, you asked all the questions that I wouldn't have asked, and now Harry and Ron think she has truly joined Lord Voldemort. If I thought you were going to be so idiotic, I would never have left."

While Hermione was denying her willing involvement with Voldemort and shaking in the corner, Snape approached her like he would a frightened animal. "I don't know whether to believe you, Miss Granger, but until I can interrogate you properly—with _all_ questions asked, not just Ministry questions, questions that a former Death Eater _knows_ to ask—neither the Aurors nor I will know what to think."

Lupin whirled on Snape. "Stop antagonizing her. She's been under…" He stopped as he realized that Snape was on his side. "Oh. Shall I go retrieve Harry and Ron then?"

"I would advise it," Professor Dumbledore said from the doorway. His eyes were not twinkling, but they were not cold and hard, like they had been in her nightmare. He looked down at Hermione with the utmost seriousness. "I realize that what she has said is incriminating enough for the Ministry to imprison her for at least a mandatory twenty four hour period, but I would like the whole story, not just the story determined by Veritaserum. The structure you set for her made her answers extremely limited, and I'm sure there is a larger explanation for many of her actions."

Lupin nodded and left the isolation ward.

"Hermione," Dumbledore murmured, walking slowly toward her, "it is undeniable that you have engaged in illegal activities, both by your own volition and by Lord Voldemort's command. However, I believe that in the latter, there were extenuating circumstances that the confines of Veritaserum did not allow to come to the surface."

"Voldemort would have made it obvious that she was his servant," Snape said to Dumbledore. "But he would have let it remain obvious under the surface that she was not."

Dumbledore nodded. "It would be a game that Tom would play. Do you think you can interrogate her properly without Veritaserum?"

"I can, but couldn't Occlumency…?" Snape began.

Dumbledore tilted his head at Hermione and said softly. "Try it, if it's possible. Her mind is guarded."

"But that's impossible," Snape snorted. Then his countenance revealed the realization. "Unless he's blocking her through a…"

"Hermione," Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to show us your left forearm."

"If you think she has the Dark Mark, doesn't that mean that she is unequivocally a Death Eater?" Moody growled. "There is no record of a person receiving a Dark Mark against their will."

Snape glared at Moody. "Not many who attend an initiation are unwilling unless they are the victims for sacrifice or the pleasure of the inductees. Miss Granger was at the initiation, and it is possible that she had a hand in some of the rituals unwittingly. We will have the _full_ explanation after Lupin returns, not the bumbling inefficiency and ineptness of your interrogation."

"And I suppose your duties as interrogator while a _Death Eater_ qualifies you more than trained Aurors," Moody retorted.

"At least I know what I am," Snape murmured savagely. "And I know Voldemort far better than you ever will. I believe that I am more than qualified."

"Alastor, Severus, please," Dumbledore said, holding his hands between the two men. "Miss Granger, your arm…"

She clutched it tightly to her stomach, rubbing it. "I didn't… he gave… I watched… I can't… what he…"

"Miss Granger, I will not consider it a brand on your character," Dumbledore replied gently. "But if the Dark Mark is interfering with Occlumency, I would like to know about it."

Snape did a double-take on the buttons of her robes. They were remarkably familiar. "Are those _my robes_?"

Hermione looked at him in confusion before looking down at herself. Then she flushed. "Yes," she whispered, embarrassed. "He took them out of the wardrobe in your laboratory and adjusted them with magic to fit me."

There was a snort from the other side of the bed. Tonks was covering her mouth, and there was a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. But it was clear where her loyalties lay. She was standing next to Moody and Shacklebolt, taking sides.

"He didn't let me wear anything at all before that," Hermione said fiercely at the sniggering Metamorphmagus, missing the priceless face Snape had when she acknowledged that she was wearing _his_ clothes. "Sometimes a shift, but mostly I walked around without any clothes. Do you know why?"

"Maybe because you spread your legs, just like Draco said you did," Harry said, his mouth drawn in a thin line. Lupin led Ron in as Harry was speaking, and the accusatory glint in Ron's eyes directed itself straight at Hermione.

Hermione felt something pierce her heart, and an obstruction began to form in her throat. Harry did not believe her. The one hope she had… But Lupin squeezed Harry's shoulder, and Hermione could see Harry wince under the pressure.

"No," Hermione replied. "It's because I was lower than a house-elf to him. House-elves can cover themselves, but I couldn't wear anything without Voldemort's permission."

"Before you continue, Miss Granger," Snape said. "I have to look into your eyes to know if you are telling the truth, and it would be better if you were on the bed. And you have yet to show us your forearm."

"I don't want to." Hermione's eyes darted from Snape to Dumbledore to Harry to Ron to Moody to Shacklebolt.

"I've seen a Dark Mark before," Snape said impatiently.

"You mean," Ron sputtered, "you mean that after all this time… we thought you were fighting… we were with you all this time… and you joined _him_? You actually…"

"Silence!" Snape bellowed. "I will _not_ work under these conditions. If you cannot let me do my work, then you can leave. If you are not willing to hear Miss Granger's side, you were never worthy to be called her friend. Not even a Dark Mark can change that. This entire situation reeks of Voldemort's whimsy, and I want to hear Miss Granger tell the truth."

Many in the room were left fuming, but they did not say another word.

Snape looked at Lupin. "Could you assist Miss Granger into the bed?"

Lupin nodded and approached Hermione. She still held her left arm against herself, but she let herself be coaxed to the bed. She sat on the edge, trying to force all memories of previous beds from her mind, not entirely succeeding, but enough to keep from sliding back to the floor, where she felt far more comfortable. When he sat down next to her, she was too aware of the press of his thigh against hers and the sensation of his hand around her waist. She knew in her mind that he was being supportive, but she moved herself farther from him, eyes apologetic. He took the slight in stride, giving her a small smile of understanding.

Snape held out a hand and locked his eyes with hers. "Your arm, Miss Granger?"

Hesitatingly, Hermione stretched her left arm out, the forearm facing up. Snape smirked as he saw the row of buttons up the sleeve, and he knew Hermione would never be able to undo them herself. She closed her eyes and turned her face away as he spelled the sleeve so that it gaped open around a lurid Dark Mark.

Moody swore under his breath, knowing better than to get between Snape and Dumbledore when they were this persistent. He did not know why Dumbledore listened to the former Death Eater rather than him, but he had learned not to contradict Dumbledore because he was often right—often, not always. Moody did not think he was right in this case. What he heard was far too incriminating. There was never any reason for what she did, not after what her actions had caused, even if they were inadvertent actions. He did not think he could forgive her for that. He glanced at young Weasley and Potter. It seemed they were taking the Dark Mark and everything else in the same light as he. Good. Maybe they would not be so blinded by Dumbledore's hesitance to believe that one of the his precious Gryffindor would betray the Order. He, Moody, had seen worse betrayals.

"All right, Miss Granger, I want you to look into my eyes. If you look away, I might think that you are lying." Snape knelt down on the floor so that he could be at eye level. "I may intimidate you. I may ask embarrassing or personal questions. I may ask you to remember something that you do not want to remember. But if you know you are innocent and convince the rest of us that you are innocent, you have nothing to fear. I don't want you to answer anything but the truth, but give thorough explanations. We have all night. Are you ready?"

Hermione looked at him, clutching the sheets of the bed, but she did not look away. She nodded.

"Very well. Now I want to you explain why you were doing Dark Arts during your sixth and seventh year without information Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley."

Hermione's eyes did not waver. "When the Order denied me membership, I thought that I could help you anyway. All I wanted to do was research antidotes to poisons and Dark potions, and I wanted to develop countercurses for indefensible curses. I realized that in order to do that, I had to research the Dark Arts themselves. I succeeded, and I'm willing to giving the Order any information on protection that they want."

"I know the extent to which you researched," Snape said. "I heard the number of Dark potions and curses you practiced. However, I'm still curious why you did such a dangerous thing without including your friends."

"They would have told you. And I knew that they would worry and wouldn't want me to do some of the spells and potions on myself. Some of the things were dangerous, like when I went into the Forbidden Forest to gather ingredients or study some Dark creature. I protected myself though." She held out her wrists and stretched out her fingers. Lupin winced slightly when he saw the faded lycanthe on her palm, but he did not comment.

"The Dark Arts are tricky, and more than dangerous, Miss Granger. There was a reason…"

"I know that now," Hermione muttered. "My lord… Voldemort told me about…"

"She called him her 'lord,'" Moody snarled.

Snape stood, all menace. "Out," he said. "You can wait outside and listen where you can comment to your heart's content, but I will not have you interrupting." Moody looked to Dumbledore, who nodded. Curling his lip in a sneer, he hobbled from the room. Tonks and Shacklebolt were uncertain whether to follow him or stand their ground, but they stayed.

"Go on, Miss Granger."

"Voldemort told me that the Dark Arts latch onto those who use them, even if intentions are good. He told me that you, Professor, fight them every day and that Aurors only tell themselves that they are fighting for the right side, although they engage almost indiscriminately in the Dark Arts. They develop a blood lust. I… I'm not sure how right he was, but I do recognize the pull of the Dark Arts now. When I brewed the potions he told me to make, I felt them. When I thought about what I wanted to do to his Death Eaters, I felt them. They want to be used."

Snape's face was even and emotionless. He had never shown himself like this, so open to what she was saying. "The Dark Lord uses the truth as a weapon when it is useful to him. What he told you was true."

Hermione heard Harry, Ron, Tonks, and Shacklebolt shift in both discomfort and indignance.

"You said you did not leave with the Dark Lord," Snape said. "However, he took you. How did he take you?"

"The Nightmare Potion. I don't know how he gave it to me in his snake form, but I suspect Draco Malfoy had something to do with it. He was acting oddly around me all day. When Voldemort gave me the antidote I had made, I woke up. It seemed like another part of Hogwarts, and it was cold enough to be a part of the dungeons. When he took me away, he put a bag over my head and had the elder Crabbe or Goyle carry me away so I wouldn't know how he got in and out."

"Why didn't he just kill you? Why did he take you instead?"

"For several reasons, I think, though the main reason was that he simply couldn't."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"The snake-charming spell," Hermione replied. "I don't know whether it would work if it was cast on him while he's in his man-form. I wouldn't think so. But while he was a snake, the menagerie manager told me to take control of him with a snake-charming spell so that he couldn't hurt me or leave me."

Snape smirked. "I can imagine he was not pleased with that."

Hermione's smile was less amused. "He had Crabbe and Goyle beat me, trying to get me to release him from the spell."

"Did you?" Ron said accusingly. "Did you give it to him so soon?"

Snape glared at Ron, as though he was not worth the Potions Master's time. "You may join Moody, Mr. Weasley."

Ron shut his mouth, but he did not move. Snape did not press the issue.

"I did not." Her voice caught. "They beat me until I was unconscious. I bet it hurt Voldemort that I was hurting, too. It was frustrating for him, no matter what face he showed me when he wanted the spell removed."

"What happened then?"

"I was put in a dungeon for what I think was two weeks. It was freezing, I was bruised—I think I was magically healed a bit, too—and after two weeks of the wet winter weather, no food, no water except what dripped down the walls, I wasn't all there. Creatures… house-elves, I think, brought me to a warm room, a bath, with food. That was when Wormtail came in."

"Was that when Wormtail…?" Tonks asked softly. Because of her tone, Snape did not snap at her.

Hermione nodded. "Yes. It was… I didn't have enough energy even to push him away. I fell asleep before he even... The bed was just so nice after a stone floor, and it was like I had gone numb."

"So you just let him fuck you? You didn't even fight…?" Ron began.

"Out, Mr. Weasley," Snape said. Ron let out a frustrated yell and punched the wall, but he left the room after opening the door with a spell. "Continue, Miss Granger."

"I didn't _let_ him. I had no energy to fight him."

"Did he ever violently rape you?"

"Yes."

"You sound less harsh than I would expect after a man like Wormtail "

Hermione hesitated. "Wormtail was… the kindest Death Eater, which isn't saying much, I guess. I don't know how to explain it. The next time I was given to Wormtail as a punishment for speaking against Voldemort and as Wormtail's reward for speaking up for himself, he wanted me to feel reassured, he wanted me to feel pleasure with him. I… he let me take control that time."

Snape's lip curled. "So that was the willing sex."

"It was willing, but it was… it's hard to explain… the dynamics of it. Maybe being around Voldemort and Death Eaters warped my perception of things, but… making Wormtail want me badly enough to scream…" Her cheeks, neck, and ears turned beet red. "It gave _me_ the control instead of _him_. I knew that I was going to have sex with him, one way or another. He had a wand and his silver hand. I only had my body. It was either lying on my back and just taking it or… control. I don't know whether that makes me his whore or…" The obstruction in her throat grew, and she could just feel the disgust coming from Harry and Tonks, even Lupin, although she instinctively knew that for him it was disgust for Wormtail, not her. "But," she felt compelled to defend him, even after all the bad things he had done, "he let me cry. He let me just sleep next to him as he held me, no sex during that. He was more considerate… He was awful and revolting, but he was considerate."

"Did you enjoy it?" Harry said bitterly. Snape did not tell him to get out because he could sense the sincerity of the question.

"No," Hermione replied. "How can you say that? After the Shrieking Shack and your dreams of him, after he cut off his hand for Voldemort…? I never enjoyed the sex. I couldn't…" Her voice wavered, and she swallowed the tears and hurt back as well as she could.

"Tell me about Lucius Malfoy," Snape said, giving her something else to think about.

"After the time Wormtail… I let Voldemort free of the spell." She heard Harry inhale to say something. "Before you make any judgments," Hermione said quickly, "understand that I knew I would set him free eventually. Even my death would set him free. You know that Voldemort can be persuasive when he wants to be. I was going to give the countercharm. I just wanted him to suffer, at least for a little while. I don't know if you can understand that. Maybe you can't unless you've been through what I have. Harry, you've been targeted by Voldemort, but you haven't been through what I've been through. And you never will be. You won't understand completely. Just believe that I held out as long as I could. I did fight. I really did.

"After I set him free from the snake-charming spell, he gave me to Lucius to break me."

"Lucius? You call him Lucius?" Tonks asked.

"My master was Lord Voldemort, not him," Hermione explained. "He tried to break me the only way he knew how. I resisted at first."

"For how long?" Harry asked.

"Three weeks. He would punish me when I did not do what he taught me to do."

"How?" Harry asked.

"I don't want to say. It was… it hurt. It was nothing with his wand, but there was a knife involved. He charmed away any wounds after he was finished so that there would not be any scars. He knew where to press his fingers to cause me pain. He knew every inch of the body and how it reacted to certain painful stimulation. After three weeks I gave up and gave him what he wanted. I think that was the other willing sex. Not truly willing, but I did what he wanted." Hermione wanted to see Harry's face, but when he was silent, Hermione guessed it was enough to make him think, at least. Or maybe she did not want to see his face.

"You said Lucius 'tried' to break you. He didn't succeed?" Snape said.

Hermione shook her head. "Not like Voldemort wanted me to be broken. He decided that he himself was the best to break me. Maybe… maybe he did. Look at me… I'm not like I… like I was."

"What did the Dark Lord do?"

"The initiation," Hermione whispered. She wanted desperately to look away, but Snape's eyes had caught hers now. She could not depart from them if she tried.

"What happened after I left, Miss Granger?"

"The official initiation of the new Cat's Paws, Black Dogs, and Death Eaters. They are all people that you know or I don't know. Except Susan Bones. She wanted revenge for her family and for Neville's, and she tried espionage by being a Death Eater."

"Foolish girl." Snape swore.

"Voldemort knew at a glance that she did not truly want to be one of his. So after she had taken the full rites and received the Dark Mark, he killed her. Her body was the completion of the other initiated Death Eaters' rites."

"The consumption of the blood of a body dead due to them. They must have betrayed her before then. Foolish girl," he repeated.

Hermione fumbled at her wrist. "This bracelet. It's hers. I want Neville to know that she died for a good cause, trying to avenge her family and his. Although I'm not sure how much consolation that will be." She managed to unclasp the bracelet without looking down, and she held it out behind her so that Harry could take it. She felt pressure and let the trinket go. She assumed Harry had taken it.

"How did you receive a Dark Mark when a caused death is needed?" Snape asked.

"My parents. I caused their deaths…. I watched… they brought them forward… I watched as they… it was… they were screaming… I tried to save them… but Crabbe and Goyle were holding me back… I tried so hard… they tortured them until… they couldn't move… and Voldemort took some of their blood on his fingers and forced it into my mouth. I… I had to swallow… or I'd choke…"

"What about his blood?" Snape said. "You need his blood as well."

"I bit down against his fingers. It drew blood."

"I see," he murmured.

"I… he… he killed them and gave me the Dark Mark… I think he burned their bodies and the body of Susan. I… I think I completely blacked out. I don't remember much of what happened after that, at least for a while. I wasn't really there, I was like a… like a machine… I just saw them… I couldn't stop seeing them unless I shut everything down… I just wanted it to… they're gone… because of me."

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It did not belong to Lupin, it was too thin to be Lupin's hand, and the bed had not shifted. Harry. She could smell his skin. She rubbed her eyes. She was not going to cry, not here, not where anyone could see her. She needed to cry for her parents—she had not mourned them yet, not really—but now was not the time.

"The next event I remember after that was when the younger followers of my… Voldemort attacked Hogwarts with that potion. They brought in Terry and Parvati and Padma, and Nott and Avery took Harriet and Darla for their own. Voldemort did a small Legilimens with Terry. I spoke out for the first time after the initiation—I came out of the blur. That was when I was given to Wormtail." She stopped. She hoped that was the last thing she had to talk about. Her entire body was tingling and shaking like a leaf. She was dizzy, her mouth was dry, and her stomach was tight as a knot.

"Continue, Miss Granger."

"I told you what happened with Wormtail," Hermione replied.

"You haven't told us about making the potions. Or about deciphering my text."

Her fingers scratched at the Dark Mark. She was not even aware she was doing it. "He gave me the task of translating your text that he found. I didn't for a while. I don't know how long. Probably two to three weeks. At least it seemed like that. I finally translated the first page because it looked like an introduction and not anything of importance. After I read it... But it seemed like you made everything too obvious. If you didn't want the text to be found, it wouldn't have been. And the text was too easy to translate. Voldemort had probably translated it already and just wanted me to as a symbol of… obedience."

"It wasn't supposed to be easy," Snape muttered. "It sounds like you are justifying yourself."

"I…" Hermione could not find words. "Maybe… maybe I was. I don't know… it just seemed… I don't want to blame the Dark Arts… and I don't want to blame the fact I knew I'd do it anyway… this I could have resisted… I could have… but I didn't. As awful… maybe I was bored… It's horrible… I know that I betrayed you and the Order and… I won't ever… I can't forgive myself… but once I gave in then… I kept giving in… he asked me to make potions because they didn't require a wand… so I did. But I was also brewing a Corrosive Concoction. I double-brewed many of the other potions, too, so no one knew I was making the Corrosive Concoction. I know that the potions hurt people, but…"

"One of the vials I showed you," Shacklebolt interrupted, "held an Explosion Potion used against Hagrid's house. Hagrid died."

Hermione stiffened. "What?"

"There was almost nothing left of him. It was a well-made potion," Shacklebolt said, his voice dripping with disgust. "And just because you were bored…"

"Hagrid's dead?"

"He died peacefully in his sleep if that lightens your conscience," Shacklebolt continued sarcastically. A tremor went through Hermione's body. She still did not cry.

"Out," Snape said. "You can rouse her guilt later, but now is not the time. Get out."

Now there was just Tonks, Harry, Lupin, Dumbledore, Snape, and Hermione.

"The Corrosive Concoction, Miss Granger," Snape said, bringing her back to the original subject.

Hermione's voice was thick when she said, "I knew that no one was going to rescue me if they hadn't yet. I know that I wasn't first priority. I didn't expect me to be, not among the Order, not when they weren't sure whether I was there willingly or not. I know what things looked like from the outside. But… where I was, after everything that had happened and everything that Voldemort had ever said, I was first priority for me. I used the Corrosive Concoction to burn through the shackles keeping me to the laboratory, and I hit Draco… Malfoy over the head with a rock. I nearly escaped." Her fingernails dug into the Dark Mark, almost drawing blood. Lupin reached over and gently removed her right hand from the damage. He held it for a moment, then released it.

"Nott caught me a couple of corridors away. He had beaten me almost immobile before my… Voldemort stopped him. He healed me. Then Voldemort chained me to his bed like he had at the beginning."

"To his _bed_, Miss Granger?"

Hermione shook her head. "He wasn't interested in me sexually. It was the principle of the thing."

"Anything else?"

Hermione shook her head. "Nothing. Who else did my potions hurt?"

"A few Ministry officials. Two are in St. Mungo's for insanity after being forced Formidable Foe," Tonks answered quietly. "Five Muggles. Hagrid and his dog. They threw the potion from the Forbidden Forest, before the Hogwarts barrier."

Hermione's head fell to her knees, eye contact with Snape finally broken. "I never… I wouldn't… it… I'm sorry… I… I'm… betrayer… I know… I'm… like Wormtail… betrayer… I never should have… it's…" Her left arm curled against her belly again, and she rocked back and forth. She still held back tears, and they swam in her eyes. Lupin reached out an arm to hold her shoulders, but Snape stood and stopped him. Then he pointed his wand at the girl's body and said evenly, "_Stupefy_."

"Moody, Shacklebolt, Mr. Weasley, you can come back in," Snape said, letting Hermione's body unceremoniously crumple to the floor.

"Weasley's left. Left a while back," Moody said, entering. Shacklebolt came in behind him. "He didn't hear a lot of what Miss Granger said. And it doesn't matter. She still caused the deaths of people. She still has to…"

"Be taken to Azkaban for her sentence to be decided," Snape finished for him, voice tight—because of what, no one in the room was sure. "She's ready for you. The Headmaster, I believe, has the final decision, though, being both her Headmaster and a member of the Wizengamot. I trust that he will make the wisest and right decision." Snape looked directly at Dumbledore, who had been silent throughout the entire interrogation. Dumbledore looked down at Hermione, contemplative.

"You must take her," Dumbledore finally said. "Procedure. I will have to think, and I will meet the Wizengamot and the Minister tomorrow to determine the verdict."

"Fine," Snape said. "I need to return to my quarters. It is late, and there is plenty I need to do."

"Of course, Severus," Dumbledore said, dismissing him. He beckoned to the Aurors. Tonks Levitated Hermione from the floor.

"By authority of the Ministry," Tonks said somewhat weaker than she would have liked to, "we take Hermione Jane Granger into Auror custody into order to detain her until her Wizengamot sentence or trial." Tonks' skin was white as she led Hermione from the room. Shacklebolt bowed to Dumbledore before leaving as well. Harry stared after them.

"So what have you decided?" Moody asked.

Dumbledore looked up, as though startled. "I must sleep on it. I recommend a good night's sleep for everyone. You should go back to your home, Alastor."

"She is guilty, Dumbledore," Moody said. "She made those potions. She did Dark Arts that some Aurors are not permitted to know before she ever met Voldemort…"

"I said you should go, Alastor." It was now less a suggestion and more a command.

Moody ducked out of the room.

"Good night, Harry, Remus. I'm afraid I'll have to leave you. Go to sleep, Harry. Things will be decided however it was meant to be decided." Dumbledore, too, walked out of the isolation ward, a troubled furrow in his brow.

Lupin glanced up from the close observation of his knees to see Harry still there, eyes on him.

"Do you think…?" Harry began.

"Yes," Lupin answered.

Lupin stood and guided Harry out of the room.


	20. Chapter 19

**Title:** Abyss (19)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 19**

When she woke up, she thought that she had been thrown back to the wolves. The cell reminded her far too much of Voldemort's dungeons. She was lying on her side in a corner and the prison bars looked out into other cells and the corridor between them. Unlike the dungeons she remembered, though, there were other prisoners in these cells. Had there been a battle through which she had been unconscious?

No, these prisoners looked ragged, dirty, like they had been there for years. They huddled in curled balls, heads buried in their arms, muttering to themselves, crying, screaming.

Icy realization clenched around her chest. From one hell into another. They thought she was guilty. Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore and the Aurors had listened to her testimony, and she was in Azkaban. The people who she had thought would take her back, wrap their collective arms around her and comprehend exactly what had happened to her during the course of her imprisonment—they thought she had done the unforgivable and joined the Dark Lord.

The frigid tendrils of her revelation tightened, spread, and she saw the dementor drift past her cell in the corridor. It paused, turned to face her, and opened its mouth, imbuing her with all its despair and coldness, taking the happiness of her past, the happiness of being with the Order before the kidnapping. She saw herself at Hogwarts during her fourth year.

"_I see no difference." She swore her heart broke into a million pieces after that comment. How did Snape know that mentioning her looks would be the perfect insult, the insult that would echo in her ear longer than Draco's 'Mudblood'?_

Another deep, rattling breath from the dementor.

_Her parents' tortured forms there on the lawn, their bodies cursed beyond recognition. Eyes accusing. Voldemort dipping his fingers into their blood and bringing it to her. The burn of the brand, the Dark Mark, the sign of the Dark Lord's followers. The shattering of her mind._

Another swallow of happiness.

_The slide of the slick edge of a knife running through her shoulder blades over the bumps of her spine. Sharp, stinging pain and the feel of warm breath against the blood welling into the thin canal the knife had created. Lucius' voice in her ear, "I could split you in two. Open your legs." She did not, and the knife continued to slide over the small of her back._

"_Are you sure?" Lucius asked, whispering in her ear._

_She parted her thighs. He thrust into her, setting the knife aside. Hermione knew better than to reach for it._

The dementor passed her by and went on to the next prisoner. Hermione gasped in air, her mind her own again. Azkaban. Harry Potter's best friend convicted of aiding Lord Voldemort and contributing to the deaths of Ministry officials. Rita Skeeter was going to have a field day with the fall of her nemesis—she could see the lurid headlines and all the terrible speculation by people who had no idea what they were talking about. She could see the Minister of Magic checking the prisoners and spitting in her face. She could see and hear Voldemort laughing at her. His plan had succeeded. She almost wished he would break into the prison and take her back. At least Voldemort knew the truth and knew who she was and what he had put her through. She had no false notions of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord could not disappoint her—she had experienced every bit of his deviousness and derogation.

But no. She shook her head, her hand over her eyes as she internalized her despair. Better to be in Azkaban than to join him. Better to be here than really fighting against Harry and Dumbledore. She could not hurt anyone here. She would not betray them again. Never again. She wanted to be on the right side, even if no one believed her.

She brought her knees closer against her. Her eyes were open, and she held her open-sleeved arm out against the floor so that she could see the Dark Mark and remind herself that she was not going to be a Death Eater. She would be safe, no matter how unhappy she was.

The dementor came back at regular intervals. At least she thought it was the same one. Ever since the departure last summer of a majority of dementors in favor of the Dark Lord, Azkaban had been short-staffed. The remaining dementors stayed simply because they now had a larger feast without having to compete with hundreds of others. It meant that Hermione did not experience all her worst memories all the time, but she had enough despair on her own without the dementors feeding on her happiness.

Like Sirius, it was easier for her because she knew she was mostly innocent and her containment in the prison was the safest option—these thoughts did not make her happy, but they made the punishments by the dementors bearable. And part of her wanted the punishment. She knew that she _had_ betrayed the Order. She may have been coerced, but she still betrayed them. When the dementor passed her cell, it brought this thought to the forefront with other memories until it was always there, even when there was no dementor. If the Order did not want her and Voldemort did not want her, she was going to open her mind to the dementor without a fight, yield her happiness because she no longer needed it or wanted it.

Time seemed to stretch. All the screams and cries of other prisoners melded with hers—so like Ignorance, the echoes, completely devoid of hope, prisoners lost in their own minds. She wondered how many of them were innocent.

_The slippery, revolting feel of Wormtail inside of her, on top of her, spent and sweating, telling her he wished she wanted him._

She deserved to remember.

_Voldemort telling her that the Order would never trust her._

Gods help her, he had been right.

_Her parents floating from the ground, dropped into the fire._

Her fault.

_The hollowness of her stomach, skin pale and almost blue in the moonlight, shivering under a damp blanket that only made the cold worse. The rats that were her only company._

She was back there. She might as well be.

The dementors were stretched too thin for them to be the only guards. There were human guards, too, some Azkaban prisoners themselves but of a lesser infraction. Two paraded the corridor with the other dementor. They looked in on her each time they came by her cell. She must really be a novelty. Or perhaps the Dark Mark was what made them stare. Maybe they had already heard rumors. Hermione did not care. Let them look as though she were an animal on display. Sometimes she looked back at them, lifted her head in acknowledgement, but mostly she just stared off into the distance, her mind firmly set on unpleasant thoughts of the past.

Then one of them stopped, keys rattling in his hand. She sat upright, watching him. The cell door opened, and the guard walked in. Like the others in the prison, his face was unshaven, his hair unkempt and filthy, and when he grabbed her shoulders, the permanently manic gleam in his eyes boring into hers, she struggled. She knew what those eyes meant—she had seen them before.

His fingers slipped. He began muttering. "Stupid little girl, little girl, doesn't know, wild like a stupid little girl, doesn't know she's, stupid little girl…" His hands fumbled with her clothes, trying to grab her. "Little girl leaves, doesn't, she doesn't, stupid, girl, little girl, leaves, fights like a stupid little animal, stupid little girl, free and she, little girl, _fights_…"

She was weak from the heavy misery of the dementors, and her efforts faltered, slowed. Finally, she was limp, his arms around her shoulders to hold her still. Whatever he was going to do to her, he could do. She was not going to fight the inevitable.

The guard kept mumbling as he lifted her to her feet. "Finally, little girl, girl, girl, stopped fighting, stupid animal, come with me, little girl, animal, free, stupid, little girl…"

He led her out of the cell and down the corridor. Hermione could feel the sightless eyes of the dementor on her back, but it did not pursue her. It had easier prey, and the Ministry told it that it could not feed from her anymore. It was always resentful when they said it could not feed, but when the creatures left, it could not sense their happiness, and he forgot.

The guard held her close to him as they descended slippery stairs, arms still around her shoulders, bracing her as her feet stumbled on the dampness and moss. His muttering was meaningless to her, and her thoughts turned to what was happening. Maybe she was being taken to another cell, one that had more dementors to feed on what little was left of her happiness. Maybe they were going to execute her, or worse, hold her down while a dementor took her soul.

For the first time, she stiffened, and her struggles began anew. She did not want to lose her soul, not that. She had lost her friends, her parents, her mind, her life, but she was _not_ going to lose her soul. The guard cursed as he felt onto his arse, and they slid, fell, and rolled the rest of the way down the stairs. She clawed at his arms, which had not budged from her shoulders. Muttering, he kneed her thighs open so that he could grab a leg. She squirmed like a rat, but the guard was strong, and he shouldered his way through the door.

He threw her to the floor and pointed to the fireplace where green flames flickered. A Ministry Floo operator took Hermione's arm and pulled her to the fire before throwing in a handful of powder.

"The Ministry Vestibule," he called out in a clear tone, and he pushed Hermione into the flames. The world around her disappeared as she traveled through grates. When the spinning stopped, she stumbled forward, falling to her hands and knees, covered in ash.

Coughing and blinking, she gathered herself together and stood to see Remus Lupin waiting for her, hands clasped behind his back, his face inscrutable beyond the tired eyes and lined face. He looked like he had not slept.

She just stood there, looking at him, bewildered, refusing to think about what it might mean to see him. He must be there to tell her he wished he had never believed her, that she was worse than Wormtail and did not deserve to even be called by name.

"You're innocent, Hermione," he said softly.

The words could not seem to make it past the wall of self-blame she had constructed around her mind, and she stared blankly at him.

"The Wizengamot decided that you are innocent," Lupin repeated. He took a tentative step toward her. "I am here to take you home."

Hermione's legs could not hold her, and she collapsed. Lupin caught her before her head hit the ground, and he braced her against him. She was too shaken to protest.

"The Wizengamot heard the Auror's testimony, but Dumbledore overruled the verdict with his authority as Headmaster. I think he used the fact he knew about Voldemort's return two years ago and no one wanted to believe it to appeal on your behalf."

"He… he believed me?" Hermione asked weakly.

Lupin paused. "Yes."

Hermione noticed the pause. "I'm not going to be accepted back completely, am I?" she said, bowing her head against his shoulder.

"Professor Dumbledore does not blame you for what you did when you were with Voldemort," Lupin replied. "However, his reservations are for your Dark Arts activities while you were at school. He tried to protect you from that, but you engaged in Darkness that few Aurors even see until about ten years of service."

Hermione allowed herself a wry smile. "So I suppose asking to join the Order finally is out of the question."

"I'm afraid so, Hermione. And I agree with them."

"I know," she whispered. "I wouldn't trust me either. I don't trust myself. It's ironic, though, that I taught myself the Dark Arts for the Order, and now I have no chance to help. I can only stand back and watch." She laughed mirthlessly. "The Dark Lord was right. He knew what he was doing when he let me go. I don't want to imagine what things will be like when I return to school, what kind of rumors will spread and what I'll hear."

Lupin swallowed. "It will be difficult, Hermione. I know how difficult it can be when you're tainted in the eyes of the world. I'm right behind you every step of the way."

Hermione pulled back. "I appreciate that. But I've lost the Headmaster's trust, and I suppose my Head Girl responsibilities have been stripped from me…"

"No," Lupin said dryly, "you're keeping that. There are only a few more weeks left in school, and the Headmaster saw no reason why the honor should be removed if it had not been throughout your absence—and he pointed out instances of Head Boys and Girls with serious infractions. There will, however, be a considerable blemish in your permanent file—criminal records are not easily hidden—and you will be under twenty-four hour supervision for an indefinite period. I've been instructed to give you this."

He thrust a wrist cuff at her in disgust. "It will alert the nearest Auror if you venture anywhere suspicious. The basic British wizarding areas as well as your home town are your free limits. The Continent is obviously not permitted. To put it bluntly, you're on extended probation, and it's not likely they will ever let you off, not after the Dark Arts and your prolonged exposure to Voldemort."

Hermione did not even flinch as she wrapped the cuff around her wrist. It tightened around her flesh to fit her. "From Lord Voldemort's shackles to the Ministry's."

"Hermione," Lupin said. "Do not _ever_ think that you were wronged by being brought back here. It's constraining, but it is more freedom than you would have been given under Voldemort, at least if you never joined him. There will still be opportunities. There are those of us in the Order who _do_ believe you and trust you."

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't," Hermione replied. "None of the Aurors do, and Ron hates me now, which means that the Weasleys are not going to be pleased at all. I remember when that article by Rita Skeeter came out about how I was playing with Viktor and Harry. They'll find an ice sculpture in my place by the time the Mrs. Weasley is through with me. They may treat me like a… a daughter when things are going well, but they were never quick to have faith in me when they had reason to believe someone else. And who are they going to believe? Us? Just us? Did you see the way Harry _looked_ at me?"

"Harry believes you," Lupin said quietly. "Completely. He and I had a long talk last night. The only reason he did not come with me today is because he had classes, and Minerva did not want him to miss them, not this close to N.E.W.T.s."

"So she doesn't believe me either."

Lupin hesitated before answering, "No. Ron talked to her first, and she is angry that Albus did not come to her straightaway. Ron acted on impulse, and he and Harry aren't talking—I'm not certain, but they may have come to blows about it after I left the common room. I don't know how Arthur and Molly or the rest of them will take it, but I want you to know that Harry and I are on your side. And Professor Snape."

Hermione snorted. "After he Stupefied me? After that interrogation? He doesn't believe me."

"He convinced Albus not to expel you from the school. It was his interrogation report that made the Headmaster ultimately believe in your good intentions, if not your commendable actions." Lupin looked straight into Hermione's eyes. "Hermione, Professor Snape knows that every word you said was true. If you ever want to talk to him about anything, about your imprisonment, about other people's hate against you, anything, his door is open to you. Remember, Hermione, he, too, is under the brand of the Dark Lord. He, too, bears the burden of Voldemort's service during his espionage when he acted like a loyal Death Eater and engaged in Death Eater activities. He knows what you are feeling, Hermione, and he does not want to see a girl like you sink under the weight of your imprisonment with Lord Voldemort. He will help you."

Hermione turned her face away. "I'm a Muggleborn girl with a Dark Mark. It doesn't matter how high my N.E.W.T.s may be—I'm going to starve in the streets. The reporters will go after me every once in a while just to report some new, juicy desperation that I've stooped to. And Professor Dumbledore doesn't trust me enough to employ another 'Death Eater' at Hogwarts. When I go home, it will be empty because I watched my parents die…"

"You have no home," Lupin said. He knew it would hurt her, but if she had to hear it, she should hear it from him. "It was destroyed a few weeks after your parents were taken."

The news struck her silent. Then, "If Harry doesn't kill him, I swear I'll do it myself. I don't care if I have to research… the blackest Arts… I'm going to… kill him." She doubled over, holding in the cries that screamed to be released.

"Shhh," Lupin said, reaching out for her, but she flinched away.

"I… I didn't do a-anything… wrong… I was just trying to h-help… That's all…"

"I know," he murmured soothingly. He looked around the vestibule, wary of the eyes that were on them.

"Look at me!" she screamed at him, holding her arm out. The Dark Mark smiled evilly at him. "I was damned before Voldemort ever put his hand on me! The minutes I decided to practice Dark Arts, they took over—they possessed my body so surreptitiously, I wouldn't have noticed if Voldemort hadn't enlightened me. He told me that I would have eventually come to him anyway, and he's right! I would have been curious until that curiosity led me straight to his door. Don't you understand? I _would have_ gone to him!"

"No," Lupin said, but Hermione cut him off.

"_Yes_. Just… just _Avada_ me now, before anyone else gets their hands on me, before I give up completely and find myself going back. Please," she begged.

Lupin grabbed her arm and held his hand against the Dark Mark, not to cover it, but to show that he could touch it. "It is a mark only. It does not define you. What you do with yourself is determined by your choices, and although you made some bad ones, you would have fought the Dark Arts. I believe that you would have, and you would have overcome them. But now… now is not the time to let Voldemort win. Now is the time to be strong against him and fight the Dark. Look at Severus. He knows that fight."

"He fights them everyday," Hermione said, bowing her head. "Every day."

Lupin lifted her chin. "Then you will fight. I have complete confidence in you. I do not think that Voldemort possibly could tear you apart so that you can never reclaim a shred of your old life. You were always too strong for that. You still have your marvelous intellect, Hermione. You still have your mind to keep you company, to hold you through the nights that you think you cannot continue. And you have a heart that I hope Voldemort did not break for good. I need you to find your old confidence. I need you to show that confidence to everyone who dares to insult you for something that you did not do. It will be painful. But I don't care how close to the truth they hit. None of them have any idea all the things you have been through, and even if you told them, they cannot possibly comprehend how you've been under the hands of a master. They have _no idea_."

Hermione's eyes glittered with tears she still restrained.

"I don't know what to do. I'll always remember what they… he… Nothing short of a Memory Charm can take them away from me, and I know better than to ask for one, even though… Where am I going to go? If I can't go home… and Hogwarts…" Hermione wiped her arm against her eyes, brushing the tears aside.

"You'll finish your education, blind everyone with your brilliance in your N.E.W.T. scores, and you'll come live with me until you can find your footing," Lupin said. "My flat isn't very big, but I keep people there sometimes, other werewolves who have fallen into the crevices and who need some time to reestablish themselves. I assure you," he said softly, "you'll find your way, just like they do. You'll know what to do."

"The Order doesn't want me at Grimmauld Place," Hermione said.

"No," Lupin agreed, "but I'm not doing this for the Order. I'm not doing this because Albus or Harry or anyone asked me to. I'm doing this because I trust you and because I like you. Like Severus, I will not stand for a girl like you to fail simply because the Dark Lord wanted you to. You're better than that."

Hermione sniffed, then struggled to her feet before collapsing again. Her legs did not want to hold her, and she felt hungry, battered, and weak.

"I'm not, you know," Hermione said as Lupin put her arm around his shoulder and helped her up. She remembered Voldemort's words—_You are an extraordinary girl, Hermione._ "I'm not better than that. I'm just… I'm not."

"You are."

Something in the intensity of Lupin's voice made Hermione's lungs constrict, and she let him put an arm around her waist so that she could walk with him. Everyone _was_ staring at them, but she did not care. She would have plenty more people stare. She focused on Lupin, knowing that he had judged her and did not find her wanting. It felt strange, being so close to him without a hand slipping over her arse or cool, calculating words insinuating themselves into her head so cleverly. What she saw of Lupin was open, trusting, his intentions the same they had always been since her third year. She remembered when he had told her that she was the cleverest girl of her age, how she had dismissed it at the time—only to remember it days later, feeling the praise encompass her with its warmth. Now as much as then, his good opinion meant more to her than he knew.

And Harry and, for some reason, Professor Snape believed her. She had people who would _not_ hate her for the hell she had gone through. Now that she was actually walking away from the Ministry and on her way back to Hogwarts knowing that a handful of people would be beside her, she found that she could live one more day. And one more day after that. One day at a time.

"You ought to cover your Mark before we leave," Lupin said, a little breathless, and it occurred to Hermione that he looked pale and weaker than usual, like the full moon was coming. However, she did not mention it as she fastened each button until both sleeves were identical.

"You really do look odd in Severus' clothing," Lupin said.

Hermione managed a weak smile. "I suppose so."

"Everything is back at Hogwarts. All your clothes, your books—your wand was in the cage with Crookshanks," Lupin said. "We haven't taken inventory, but Alastor did a few Dark Detecting spells that found some books, but they were given to the Headmaster, who I believe is looking through them for the antidotes and counters that you spoke of. I don't suppose you will want them back."

"Professor Dumbledore can keep them," Hermione agreed. "I don't need… I shouldn't…"

Lupin slipped his arm around her waist again and began walking toward the exit. "I'm going to Apparate with you to the abandoned store on the surface," he said. "There will be a guard waiting for us there to escort us to Hogwarts."

"Escort me, you mean," Hermione said. "There's no need to gloss the truth, Remus. You've already told me everything."

"Escort you, then," Lupin replied mildly. "And there are probably going to be… well… reporters… a small mob. You've been hot news lately. Someone in the Ministry let it leak that you had returned and were awaiting trial for the Dark Arts. The press speculated from there."

"An ugly butchery of the truth?"

"Do you expect anything less?"

Hermione sighed. "I suppose not. Don't… don't let go of me. I might… I might fall."

"I won't," Lupin assured her, and they Apparated.

She had been warned, but the crowd that was there, the shouting and sneering of bystanders, the rabid attacks of the reporters, was nothing that she expected. She felt oppressed by the loathing around her, and she really would have fallen if Ministry Peacekeepers were not keeping the people at bay. A pair of Peacekeepers led Lupin and Hermione through the throng, but they could not stop the pieces of paper thrown at her, the small stones that hit her stomach, chest, and face. They could not stop the cruel barbs pointed at her and Lupin, nor the scavenging buzzards with Quick Quotes quills on their parchments, yelling questions like:

"How many people have you killed?"

"What Dark Arts were you practicing?"

"Does You-Know-Who Lord have a sexual preference?"

"Can you name any other Death Eaters?"

"How did you con the Ministry?"

"Did you kill your parents in a Dark ritual?"

"Are you really going back to Hogwarts to complete your year? Is Dumbledore really letting you back in?"

On and on, piercing cry after piercing cry until it all blended together into a banshee wail that she shut off in her mind. She ignored the increasingly filthy state of her clothes, and she and Lupin walked straight and silent, as though she were coming home from St. Mungo's and not from Azkaban.

"We're going to Apparate you to Hogwarts now," the Peacekeeper next to Hermione said. The crowd disappeared with a jolt, and they were at the Hogwarts gates.

"Mr. Lupin will take you the rest of the way, Miss Granger," the other Peacekeeper said, releasing Lupin's upper arm. They Disapparated with a crack.

"We still have an hour before the classes are over," Lupin said when she looked up the steep hill with some disconcertion. "We can take this slowly. We're going to your Head Girl rooms, and I am going to watch you eat a full meal and some chocolate. Then you are going to go to sleep and not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will happen when it happens, and you ought to have one night that you can enjoy. Is that understood?"

Hermione smiled, the first tentative, real smile she remembered having for the longest time. "Sounds good to me," she said.


	21. Chapter 20

**Title:** Abyss (20)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 20**

She woke up early the next morning, when the light from dawn ran gray in a thin line through her curtains and onto the covers. The sensation of being in a bed and knowing without a doubt that she was safe was something she wanted to savor. She had just been allowed the most luxurious sleep she could remember. Her pillows cradled her from all sides. Her covers were tangled about her legs, and her feet were warm. She was wearing pajamas, clothes of her own that she chose out of one of her trunks, thin flannel that enfolded her in comfort. For a fleeting moment, she wished Belthazar was there, coiled next to her, glaring at her for waking him so early, but she caught herself and pushed the thoughts of the man-snake from her head, just enjoying the security her bed afforded her.

There was a knock on the door. She muffled a groan. Surely Lupin would not expect her to be awake. Besides, he knew the password for the wards that he put up himself. Last night, she had not been quite ready for magic yet, but it nevertheless had been one of the best nights she ever had. In contrast with her timeless experience in Voldemort's fortress, she and Lupin had sat in front of her hearth with a filling, flavorful meal that the house elves were all too willing to give her. She was so pleased with the prospect of comfort food that she did not protest the use of house elf labor, and their clear desire to cater to her made her momentarily rethink her original position – of course, that could be her stomach talking.

Then Lupin asked the house elf for the most decadent chocolate that he could make, which made the elf squeal in excitement at the challenge. By the time she had made it through the resulting chocolate bar, her stomach was content, her eyelids were drooping, and she actually felt like smiling without any reason. She shed the despair of Azkaban for a few hours of happiness, a few hours that she knew were fleeting and that she knew she would not experience again for a long time, not if she was going to face the world the next day.

But she did not want to face the world now, not yet. If only Lupin would stop knocking and disturbing the peace. With a small grin, she threw back the covers, causing Crookshanks, who was sprawled at the foot of the bed, to protest with a few irritated whips of his tail. The grumpy cat acted as though he had never been gone, although he seemed to be missing Draco—or maybe that was the expensive cream. Still, Crookshanks remembered his mistress and enjoyed her attention. She mouthed an apology before going to her door.

When she opened it, she found Harry Potter standing there in his pajama bottoms and a dazed look behind his glasses. She stepped back, startled. Harry had grown since she had been taken—she noticed that he was about two inches taller than before, and his face was more angular with just a touch of fine hair on his upper lip and chin. But his green eyes were just as young and vulnerable as ever as he stared at her from under his eyelashes.

"I…" He ran a hand through his hair nervously. He bent over and picked up a tray. "I thought you might like breakfast here instead of… in the Great Hall."

"Harry," she whispered.

"And ever since you le- were taken, I subscribed to the _Daily Prophet_ and _The Quibbler_, and I pay extra for an earlier delivery." He showed her the papers on the tray, next to the toast and marmalade. "Especially after fifth and sixth year when I always had to look at your paper to see what new dirt they dished up. Anyway, you might want to read what they have to say about you… so you can prepare yourself."

Hermione turned red. "Have they already…?"

Harry tried to smile but only managed to grimace. "You're Hogwarts Head Girl and you disappeared for five months by Voldemort. You're front page."

"Have you read it?" Hermione said, taking the tray and elbowing the door closed behind Harry. He followed her to the sitting area in front of the fire. When he nodded, she ducked her head and preoccupied herself with her toast. "How bad?"

"Remember when everyone thought I was Heir of Slytherin?" She did not look up, but the toast she had slathered with far too much marmalade was not making it beyond the plate. "I was only twelve. You're eighteen. Voldemort's back, and everyone's scared."

Hermione did not reply but brought out the papers that had been placed face down.

The headlines glared at her like blatant, bloody accusations. On the _Daily Prophet_, a close-up of the Dark Mark on her arm revealed over and over that must have been taken by a photographer hidden in the Ministry, superscripted by the headline: _HOGWARTS' HEAD GIRL TURNED DEATH EATER: Hermione Granger Reveals Her True Loyalties… and Betrayal_.

Hermione had forgotten to breathe, and she gasped as she began to see black spots in her vision. She dropped the _Daily Prophet_ and turned to _The Quibbler_ in hopes that the tabloid trash had countered the newspaper with something even remotely resembling truth. Instead, she saw a rather good sketch in comparison to the rubbish the caricaturist usually drew, but she was on the arm of a hooded man who had to be Voldemort – at least that is what she assumed from the Dark Mark over his head. She was in full wedding regalia and smiling at the Dark Lord in nuptial bliss. Below the drawing were curling letters that read _YOU-KNOW-WHO AND HIS BELOVED WIFE: "He just needed a bit of love," Miss Granger insists…_

Harry looked at his hands and said, "_The Quibbler_ is good for a laugh – your article is between more Sirius sightings and a scandal between a merman and a house elf – but the _Daily Prophet_ article is vicious, and… it's believable."

Hermione's head jerked up, eyes wide. "But you don't… you…"

"I don't believe it," Harry replied quietly. "But I can think of more than ten thousand people who will."

"But… not everyone believed them when they said you were crazy and Professor Dumbledore was losing his touch, maybe…"

"Read the article," Harry interrupted, determinedly staring into the fire.

Fingers trembling, she picked up the paper and unfolded it fully so that she could see the article.

_As the wizarding world takes sides, one of the least likely candidates for evil has bowed to the terrible power of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, joining his battalions to merge her mind with the master of the Dark Arts, _writes Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet correspondent. _Eighteen-year-old, Muggle-born witch, Hermione Granger was taken into custody three days ago and held in a high-security cell in Azkaban prison for her questionable independent studies into the Dark Arts and her long absence in You-Know-Who's company. After the allegations regarding the Dark activities were brought to light, the presumed kidnapping took on a whole new light._

"_Throughout my year as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and High Inquisitor of Hogwarts," Dolores Umbridge, Special Assistant to the Minister, presently on leave, commented, "she was belligerent, disruptive, and almost single-handedly planned an anti-Ministry activist group they called Dumbledore's Army. She placed a powerful binding curse on a contract that chronically disfigured a fellow student. She clearly has little respect for authority and does not hesitate to break rules and laws for her own benefit." Ms. Umbridge is still recovering from severe trauma after being attacked by centaurs, an attack she accuses Miss Granger of implementing._

_The disfigured student was unavailable, but other students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were more forthcoming. "She put a full Body-Bind on me when we were only in our first year," Neville Longbottom, son of Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, said. Another student, a Slytherin seventh-year who did not join You-Know-Who during the Valentine's Day Hogwarts attack, claimed that he had seen her in the library during their sixth year, reading forbidden texts from the Restricted Section._

_Your _Daily Prophet_ correspondent herself can attest to the malign tendencies of Miss Granger after being blackmailed for over a year into to keep this reporter from revealing any damaging secrets about her._

_Ronald Weasley, a former friend of Miss Granger, confessed that she had brought You-Know-Who into the walls of Hogwarts posed as her familiar, a poisonous snake that was clearly against Hogwarts regulations. "I knew there was something funny about that snake when it acted all protective of her," Mr. Weasley said. "He didn't like Harry [Potter either, and always seemed to have his eyes on someone. It just wasn't right. And look what it turned out to be."_

_Miss Granger was selected as Head Girl with Ernie Macmillan as Head Boy after being prefect for two years previous. Her free reign about the halls of Hogwarts during the late nights patrolling gave her the perfect opportunity to slip into the Forbidden Forest and practice the illicit Arts popularized by Dark wizards. Her school records are open to the public and show the extraordinary aptitude of a clever witch. But is the cleverness being used for the right side?_

_Auror interrogation of the girl after she appeared in an abandoned warehouse for no apparent reason confirms that the girl has taken the Dark Mark (as shown in the picture above) and provided You-Know-Who with battle potions, some of which have rendered at least two Aurors incomprehensible with fear – now institutionalized – and at least four other Ministry members dead, as well as five Muggles and the groundskeeper of Hogwarts, Rubeus Hagrid. When her Muggle home was attacked and her parents taken, it can now be confirmed that Miss Granger killed them for her Death Eater initiation. Death Eaters, as our readers are all too familiar, are the followers of You-Know-Who that consist of his innermost circle, his closest friends._

_The Wizengamot, in a full press trial during which Miss Granger was absent, debated the evidence and came the obvious conclusion that Miss Granger, under the influence of the Dark Arts and You-Know-Who, and with her intelligence and power, ought to be sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban before an appeal trial would be permitted. However, Albus Dumbledore, member of the Wizengamot and Headmaster of Hogwarts, used his considerable influence as her school guardian and disciplinarian to protest that Miss Granger was "acting under practiced persuasion and under extreme distress" equal to the memorable methods of Auror torturing during the previous years of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's power. Although Miss Granger's healthy condition upon discovering her in the warehouse belied Dumbledore's idiotic insistence, the Wizengamot was bound to defer to the man's wishes, thus loosing a dangerous criminal back into the wizarding world, a witch capable of killing as well as clever enough to cover her tracks so that the once formidable Dumbledore feels compelled to defend her. What has the Wizengamot, a court of law that professes to keep our community safe from people like Miss Granger, done by letting Miss Granger walk free?_

_Miss Granger was predictably unavailable for comment, although she was brought out of the Ministry of Magic on the arm of a known werewolf, Mr. Remus Lupin, only to be sent back to Hogwarts! Are our children safe with Miss Granger acting as Head Girl once again, despite her overt proclivities? And what of the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, with whom Miss Granger was once best friend? _Daily Prophet _readers will remember when she trailed two venerable wizards in her wake, flirting and teasing like a siren. Now, she is once again thrust into the Hogwarts student body and can exert her Dark influence over Harry, the boy we consider our savior from he who Miss Granger serves. Will we allow it?_

_Mrs. Elizabeth Livingston has formed a group of concerned parents that plan to submit petitions to the Ministry Wizengamot, to the Hogwarts Board of Governors, and to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. She also plans to show her displeasure of the collective decision of the Headmaster and the Wizengamot by contacting Miss Granger directly._

"_She has to know that there are people who believe in doing what's right that plan to fight her and what she stands for," Mrs. Livingston commented. "We need to make our loyalties to Harry Potter and the Ministry clear, just as she has shown her true colors. I hope that Harry knows that such a witch cannot be trusted." _

_The reporters, editors, photographers, and columnists of the _Daily Prophet_ also express their hope that our Boy-Who-Lived will not succumb to Miss Granger's wiles like he did in the past, but that he, too, stands up for Hogwarts, the Ministry, the wizarding community, and all that is right._

The article spanned the entire front page and continued through half of the second page. By the time Hermione had finished the article, her face was white and the parchment rustled in her shaking hands.

"Thank you, Harry, for bringing breakfast up here," she said through clenched teeth. Harry, recognizing the signs, stood to leave. Hermione stopped him. "I'm not mad at you, I'm just… _furious_."

"Skeeter never has anything good, and she's been wanting to smear you since you kept her in a jar," Harry said.

Hermione laughed, the sound strangely metallic. "I'm not mad at her either, and I don't blame her. For the first time, she actually researched, and she researched well. Look at all these interviews. She didn't even have to try."

"Hermione," Harry murmured, "it's not your fault."

"It's _his_," she hissed. "Voldemort knew. Gods, he didn't _have _to bring me back with a corpse in my hand. He didn't have to send any of his more secret followers to answer that Skeeter woman's interviews. He just gave me a Dark Mark, let me go, and everyone else is doing his dirty work for him. And it was so _easy_. He knew. Nothing anybody does is going to surprise me because they've all played his little game."

"Do what I've always done," Harry suggested. "You told me so many times just to ignore it."

Hermione managed a weak smile. "It's not so easy, Harry. You've got a lightning scar from Voldemort. I've got a Dark Mark. They thought you were crazy. They think I'm a murderer. And I am."

"No, you're…" Harry began.

"_Yes_, I _am_," Hermione said. "At least six people died from those potions. Harry, _I killed H-h-hagrid_."

"Then I killed Cedric," Harry said. "And Sirius. And my parents." Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Harry stopped her. "No. Under Hogwarts, when I first saw Voldemort on the back of Quirrel's head, in front of the Mirror of Erised… he talked about my parents, and he said that I could join him. For a moment, looking at him, even as the possessing spirit that he was, I wanted to join him. He was full of power, even without a body – you could hear it in his voice. Every time I've seen him or shared memories with him, I know that power. It's intoxicating, I admit it.

"I've talked to Ginny, and I remember Tom Riddle. As a sixteen-year-old boy, a _memory_, he was persuasive. She knew the full effects of his focus, which is why she gave up on you long before the rest of us did – don't be angry at her for it. But… Hermione, Lupin and I… I don't blame you for _anything_. It's just one more thing that I can hate Voldemort for, for making you feel like this, like it _is_ your fault. You didn't betray anyone."

"I betrayed you, Snape, the Order, my parents, Hagrid…"

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"Hermione, he's affected you more than he's manipulated any of us – even Ginny! You did what needed to be done." Harry took the _Daily Prophet_ and threw it into the fire. "You don't need to listen to any of this crap. That's all it is. You were Voldemort's toy for five months – bad things inevitably happen."

At the reference to the Dark Lord's possession of her, Hermione winced.

"Would you have rather died?" he asked pointedly.

Hermione was silent, watching the _Prophet_ burn. "I think sometimes that I should have. But I didn't want to. I still don't want to."

"Huh. Strange. Neither do I. Because then it means that…"

"…he won," Hermione said.

"And if you just hide away and believe everything everyone is going to say about you, accept everything they'll try and do, he'll win." Harry approached her slowly. "You didn't endure Voldemort's torture for all this time just to knuckle under these idiots."

"Professor Dumbledore is not an idiot," Hermione said.

"No," Harry spat. "He only knew he was giving you Voldemort."

Hermione's head snapped up. "What?"

Harry hesitated. "I-I-You said that he had given you the snake. And Tonks said that… I thought you knew."

"Knew _what_, Harry?"

"That Dumbledore knew – or at least he had an idea – that the snake was Voldemort. He wanted… he wanted to keep an eye on both of you, and it was easier with him charmed to you." Harry was looking straight at her, and her eyes pierced his.

For a minute, she did not say anything. Then she asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"No classes."

"I hope not."

She let out a heavy breath. "I'm going to be barraged with owls this morning, probably some Howlers and other nasty things like that. I'll stay here until dinner. Then I'm going to go into the bloody lion's den. And I'm…" She bit her lip, not looking quite so cold and hard, like a moving statue. Harry saw a spark of the girl who fought tirelessly for house-elf rights and fairness and justice in the midst of her paler skin and haunted eyes and her lost weight.

"Hermione," Harry said, "are you going to be okay?"

"No."

"I'm with you. All the way."

She forced herself to curl her lip into a half-smile. "That makes more difference than you know."

He smiled back. "I have a good idea."

An owl tapped at the window next to her bed. Hermione turned around to see the red envelope it was holding. It was followed by another owl.

"Can you go down to the Infirmary and get some Headache Potion, Harry?" Hermione said, maintaining a level voice. "I'll deal with these."

Harry was hesitant to leave, but Hermione opened the door and pushed him out. "When you come back, don't let anyone in. The password is 'Joan of Arc,' Remus' choice, so don't smile at me like that. Just… you don't have to go through all this for me. But thanks."

When he finally left the common room, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. It was decidedly odd to be around Harry again, like old times, when she felt so different. Although she felt at home in Hogwarts, she did not feel welcome. Just the aura, the emotional response of the people she knew were in the Great Hall who heard the gossip and were reading the articles, enveloped her with its animosity. She was glad there was only a month and a half left. But she would address the issue of students and professors of Hogwarts, especially the issue of the Headmaster, later.

She approached the window, grabbed the Howler and the ordinary letter from the owls, and slammed the door behind them. In the distance, Hermione saw all the morning owls coming toward Hogwarts, little clusters of them. Some of them were doubtlessly for her. The pit of her stomach grew ever deeper and the hole of her heart only widened. It was so much easier when she shut off her feelings. She hoped the tenuous walls she had built would hold.

The Howler in her hand was vibrating and smoking slightly. Resigned to her fate, she tore open the letter. The female voice emanating from the Howler was multiplied to a shrieking, haggish volume that reminded her of the portrait of Sirius' mother.

"HOW DARE YOU, YOU LITTLE SLUT BITCH! YOU PARADED AROUND POOR HARRY LIKE YOU THOUGHT A MUDBLOOD LIKE YOU WAS BETTER THAN HE WAS! HYPOCRITE! HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU JOIN YOU-KNOW-WHO AND IGNORE YOUR OWN MUGGLE BLOOD JUST FOR A LITTLE BIT OF POWER! WE'RE GOING TO FIND YOU AND WE'RE GOING TO BURN YOUR…"

The Howler went on like that, yelling at her still, silent, white form before it crumbled into ash. The people all the way in the Great Hall probably heard the Howler. And only more would come. She wondered if Gryffindor Tower would sell tickets to hear the many Howlers curse and berate and shriek at her. There were more owls tapping at the window, and she saw new Howlers.

Throwing the ordinary letter – apparently from a Mr. Leonard Finney whose letter contents resembled the Howler, but in more literate, if just as biting, language – into the fire, Hermione opened the window and left it open for the onslaught of owls. Slowly, methodically, she applied herself to her task.

---

Between letters and Headache Potion, she and Harry made small talk as Hermione unpacked a few of her things, mostly clothes, and Harry threw the regular letters and some of the small packages particularly nasty people sent into the fire. When the Howlers became too much, Harry quickly asked her to help him study for N.E.W.T.s. It seemed like such an insignificant thing when the whole world was against her, but she wanted to do well on the N.E.W.T.s, like Lupin had said, and it was a useful distraction to recite textbooks verbatim when Harry asked her a question. His presence, his companionship, and his faith in her lightened the situation, especially when he made a joke about what some Howler had just screamed at her. It wasn't Ron's humor, which would have made her laugh even if it was horrible, but it helped.

Harry told her that there was a group sitting in the common room, listening to the Howlers, mostly Gryffindors, but also other students from other Houses. That was when he introduced her to the new student-initiated system that had occurred after the Valentine's Day attack in which most of the students, especially the younger years, broke down the more stubborn House boundaries – some of them justified themselves by referencing the violence and uncertainty of the times and the need for security and solidarity, but Harry said that real friendships were being made. The fifth- and sixth-years, and especially the seventh-years, found it more difficult to interact with each other, although the vastly diminished number of seventh-year Slytherins lent itself to a degree of necessary integration. Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass were the only Slytherins left in their year, although, according to Harry, they had hoped that Millicent Bulstrode would decide to stay as well. They no longer slept in the Slytherin dungeons, where there were some students who were too young and inexperienced for initiation but who still openly supported Voldemort. Instead, Hufflepuff had taken them in, as well as any other Slytherin who felt ostracized by their own House.

Hermione listened, fascinated in spite of the screaming in the background and the packages that she sometimes could not throw into the fire quickly enough harming her hands by secreting substances that made her skin itch, decay, transfigure. At least she was comfortable using her wand now after countering so much hostile magic.

The quantity of letters was not lessening, so she charmed her cauldron to accept the Howlers and cover them with a lid so that the small explosions of the unopened letters would not hurt anything in the room. Then she began to prepare herself for that evening when she would have to face the microcosm of the rest of the world, except these people would be able to do what all the other people were threatening to do. They _could_ make her eyes ooze like jelly and her hair catch on fire – or they could cause her mouth to close over, her stomach to wither, her heart to expand (she pushed that thought away because it reminded her too much of her father's tortured body), or they could just kill her, consequences be damned. She imagined that the consequences would not be too severe.

The thing she kept telling herself, over and over, like a mantra, was that she had suffered all the tortures Voldemort had devised, and she still survived. All she had to do was survive this one last enduring torture, and she would beat him at his own game. She would not give him the pleasure of crawling back to him on her hands and knees, not after all she had been through with her head bowed, her mind pliant to his honeyed voice and insidious manipulations. He would not break her, not if she had any strength or intelligence left.

This is what she told herself, but her breath quickened and all her muscles tensed into tight knots when she started toward the Great Hall for dinner. Harry was with her, and he would have offered her his hand, but she had been avoiding contact with him almost unconsciously, and he did not want to break the tentative camaraderie he and Hermione had re-cultivated. She was different than the Hermione he remembered, but that was only to be expected. He tried not to think too hard about all that had been done to her, but when glimpses of possibilities – things that she had said during Snape's interrogation – flashed through his mind, he shuddered and understood, if only marginally, why she had changed. He felt guilty for making her a target, but he also knew that she had insisted on being his friend, just as he insisted that he be her friend now, and that he should not blame himself, any more than she should blame himself, for something that Voldemort and Voldemort alone was responsible for.

Finally, she took a step out of her room, closing the door behind her, checking to make sure that the wards were up and the door password-locked. Then she clenched her fists tight with her right hand near her wand so that she could draw it if some child decided that it was their duty to duel her. She knew more curses than she cared to after spending so much time with the Death Eaters that she was afraid of dueling in case she hurt someone too badly, but it was better to be prepared nonetheless.

The corridors were quiet. The portraits watched her, and she could hear the low vibrations of their gossip after she had left their hall. Harry stayed in front of her, as she had requested – if he was seen walking behind her, they would interpret it as "trailing in her wake." She did not care if she looked subservient to Harry this time instead of the Dark Lord, as long as she was not perceived as acting superior.

Outside of the Great Hall, she could hear the murmur of the students. Hermione and Harry shared a fortifying look before Harry opened the doors.

Upon seeing Hermione, everyone in the Hall became utterly silent. Hermione froze at the entrance staring at the configuration of the tables, which had been moved from four rows of Houses to a square. The professors were still at the High Table. Hermione did her best not to look at them, still unwilling to account for how she reacted to the revelation of Dumbledore.

She kept her eyes on Harry's elbows, but she could feel the same aura of hostility that she had felt in her rooms, but here, there was a denser concentration, not like daggers, but more like fixed beams of magic. She vaguely remembered a time when she had been welcome, but the past was so far away now, so far removed from her consciousness as though it was less than a memory and more like a dream. _Everything_ had changed, not just her. She had been wrong. Hogwarts was no longer home. How strange that she felt more familiar with the post of Voldemort's bed and the tables and chairs of Snape's laboratory than in a place where she had spent more than six years.

Harry led her to the Gryffindor side of the square, although Hermione could see other Houses interspersed with those of her own House. Harry sat next to Neville and glared at Dean to move over. Dean glared back, but he stood up and sat next to Ryan, leaving a gap between Hermione's seat and the next Gryffindor, a quiet fourth-year. Hermione could see red hair in the corner of her eyes, which meant that Ginny and Ron were sitting next to each other nearer to the Hufflepuffs. Harry was not looking their way at all.

Hermione stared at her empty plate, wondering whether she ought to eat anything and wondering when the first insult would hit.

Halfway through Hermione's perusal of the ceramic, Ron stood up and walked over to her. Harry still did not look at him and grabbed a roll instead, intent on butchering it with his butter knife. Hermione, however, looked up, quasi-hopeful that perhaps he had thought about her predicament long enough. But when her head tilted toward his, he spit in her face, right on the side of her mouth, a place where he had kissed her in sixth year when they had realized that they were totally wrong for each other. Hermione closed her eyes against the shock but did not bother to wipe it away.

"Death Eater's whore," he hissed. "I bet you ordered them around in your prissy, I'm-so-much-better-than-you way when you knew they made you cheap. I bet you liked it. I bet you let them play games with you."

"Jealous?" Hermione spat. She knew it did not help, but she could not resist.

"Of a two-bit traitor like you? Not a chance. Only angry that I didn't see it when I still could have stopped it. Before you killed innocent people or drove them crazy or… I suppose you want to see what's left of Hagrid's hut. Do you want to see the charred ruins you left behind?" Ron said, his hands braced on the table so that he could bend over and stare straight into her eyes. The intensity of the hatred she saw there made her drop her eyes first.

"You can't even face us, can you? Can't even face something that you caused because you couldn't accept that you had been left out of something, couldn't accept that maybe someone knew what you were up to," Ron continued. Other people were rustling behind him, standing, agreeing. "You might as well show the Dark Mark to all of us instead of pretending to hide it. We know it's there."

Hermione stood up, pushing her chair back with an ear-splitting shriek against the stone floor. She pushed up the sleeve to her robes, baring the Dark Mark for all to see.

"Is that what you wanted, Ron?" Hermione said. "Can't any of you think straight? I have a Dark Mark, right there on my arm, and I'm here. I'm here talking to you while everyone else who has a Dark Mark is elsewhere. I can't be here to spy, everyone knows I have a Dark Mark. I can't be here to ingratiate myself, no one will take me."

"Rules change," said one Slytherin fifth-year. "Maybe you're meant to show that the Ministry can be cheated. You should be in Azkaban."

"Maybe I should," Hermione said. "But I'm not. And look, I'm under Ministry surveillance now." She held her wrist out at an angle to show off her new 'accessory.'

"Surveillance, maybe," Ron said, sneering, "but what's to stop you from convincing a portrait to let you into a dorm and murdering someone else."

"Don't talk about things you don't understand!" Hermione shouted at him, her hand hitting the table in frustration.

"I understand," Neville said. "You're no better than…"

"Than the people who tortured your parents?" Hermione said nastily. "How would you know? For your information, I've met Bellatrix Lestrange, and she didn't like me any more than she likes you."

Neville swallowed at the mention of his parents, then pointed his wand firmly between her eyes. "If you ever mention my…"

"You'll do what, Neville?" Hermione said. "Finish Voldemort's work for him? Become a murderer yourself? You'll be slaying innocent blood, and _no one here has the sense to see that_. Don't any of you know that you can't buy everything the _Daily Prophet _gives you? If you believed everything the paper says, you'd still believe that Professor Dumbledore a doddering old fool, Harry's an attention-seeking lunatic, and Cornelius Fudge is a paragon of virtue. We learned differently in the DA, though, didn't we? We learned that the _Prophet _is not to be trusted."

"It was different after they admitted You-Know-Who was back," Colin countered.

"Colin, don't be so…" Hermione was unable to finish her sentence because Neville had hit her with a Body-Bind, and she fell over backward.

"You did that to me once, remember?" Neville said, his voice level and sure. Hermione could see the hard glint in his eyes, and she noticed that no professor had moved from the High Table.

"How could you insult my parents?" he barely whispered. "How… you saw them and acted all nice and now you insult their memory by saying the name of the person who tortured them as though it was nothing? And you accuse me of murdering you if I decided to kill you? Killing you would be justice."

"Neville, come off it," Harry said.

"Harry, she doesn't care about anything. She doesn't care that she's killed people or that she's betrayed everyone…"

"Neville, you don't…" Harry began.

"Filthy Mudblood whore," said someone. Hermione did not know who, but all she knew was that this person had kicked her.

"You're You-Know-Who's servant and you walk in here like you own Hogwarts," said another person, kicking her the other way.

"Prancing around the halls like an innocent little swot when you were learning the Dark Arts the whole time – only to become his follower, his stupid, little puppy dog?" This one was Daphne Greengrass, who, according to Harry, took everyone who joined Voldemort as an affront to Slytherin honor.

She could see Ron coming at her now, and Dean, and Ginny, and so many others, swarming at her, trying to get at her. Some drew their wands. Hermione thought she heard an adult voice, but only one, and that could have been her imagination.

She could not stop them from kicking her, or spitting on her – none could develop a coherent thought in their mass fury, and she fortunately was not hit with any spells. Neville plunged his foot into her stomach while Ron kicked her ear. She was back in the cell with three hundred Crabbes and Goyles. She could not stop them until…

"You should have died," she heard from Ron. He might have been crying. "You should have died instead of done what You-Know-Who or Wormtail or whoever told you what you do. I would have looked him in the eyes and died before I'd have helped him, instead of given in like a coward."

The babbling of the insults around her coalesced into a single foreign language that transported back in time to a Swiss street strewn with shattered glass, and a dark energy seemed to _pulse_ outward. And she could move again, could move her limbs and shrink away from the kicks to protect herself and catch her breath.

The pulse of magic – accidental magic, she realized, the same magic that had burst all the windows down a tourist street in Switzerland, accidental magic caused by Dark knowledge that surfaced under frustration – pushed all the children away. When she did not have to curl into a ball to keep herself from being kicked, she chanced a look. The lot of them had fallen about twenty feet from her, some against tables and chairs, others luckier by skidding on the floor. This accidental magic startled her, but although she did not know why it had not revealed itself before under the stress of Voldemort's torture, she was going to take advantage of it.

"_None_ of you have _any infinitesimal concept_ of what I went through with the Dark Lord. The _Daily Prophet_ told only the barest surface of the truth," Hermione said, struggling to her knees. She felt like she had after Nott had beat her, though not as badly. "Do you _want_ to know what happened? Do you _want _to hear the torture I went through?" She shut her eyes against the vivid images that wanted to resurface and brand themselves once again in her mind.

"Ron," she said, her eyes still closed. "You think you could have stood Lucius or Wormtail sticking themselves into you, screwing themselves into your body, over and over and over? You think you could have watched your family die in front of you while you were helpless to stop it? Do you think you could watch them torture Ginny, make her body unrecognizable to your eyes, and still stay strong, still survive? Do you think you could stay all self-righteous after that? Do you think you'd be able to withstand watching yourself be broken by Voldemort? I think you'd sit at the foot of his throne when he was finished with you, just as he did with me, like a loyal little bitch. I think you'd give in."

"I'd die first," he shot back.

She sneered. "And what would that accomplish? You'd be dead. You couldn't do anything. Martyrdom doesn't do anything but create ideal fairy tales about death. Is that why you really hate me, Neville, because I made it through all the torture without losing my mind? Is that why you hate me? Don't any of you understand? _You would have done the same thing I did_. You aren't anyone special. I withstood him as long as I could. You Slytherins should appreciate that. I didn't know where any of those potions were going, I just wanted to get out. Like _any _of you would. You all think that you'd do something differently, everything differently, but you're all so self-righteous you don't see how ignorant you are. I'd like to just _see _each and every one of you go through Voldemort's personal breaking trials and come out on the other end unscathed. I'd like to see you without an _involuntary_ Dark Mark."

Everyone just stared at her.

"Do you want to know why I'm here?" Hermione continued. She had no idea what she looked like, had no idea that something within her seemed to be glowing darkly, or pulsing. She did not know that she appeared to be a being electric with Dark power, like Dumbledore when he was furious. It stunned everyone, either making them more suspicious of her time with the Dark Lord or simply rendering them thoughtless. "Do you really want to know why? Since you all seem so keen on the bad reasons, let me give you the real reason. This. This is why I'm here. To get spit on, to get cursed and to be given Howlers, to be distrusted and despised. So that I can learn that the right side isn't the good that I remember it to be, that you can be just as evil as any Death Eater. Voldemort brought me here so that I had no choice but to come back to him, begging to join him."

The power began to decrease, shrink within as she concluded. She began to shake, from the beatings, from fatigue, from misery. "But I'm _not_. You can hate me. You can curse me into oblivion. You can kill me. But I'm not going back. Because I'm on your side. I fight for the Light. I fight for order and laws and the preservation of the wizarding and Muggle communities. If you don't believe that, I'll go somewhere that does. But I'm not going to go back to him because a bunch of school kids convinced me I'm not loved or desired. I have a place to go that isn't here."

Suddenly, her head whipped to the side, toward the High Table, where all teachers but one were still sitting shocked in their seats. Professor Dumbledore had risen. Professor Snape was absent. Her gaze trained itself on Dumbledore.

"You," she snapped. "Aurors and medical specialists and certain kinds of researchers or professionals are Dark wizards fighting for the right side. You know that. You could have let me in. I was of age. I was able. If I was inevitably going to fall to the power of the Dark Arts, you could have at least made sure that I was on the right side. Instead, you isolate me, and you practically deliver me into the hands of the enemy. Nothing you do or say is going to explain it away, and we are going to talk _now._ I am not wasting another minute of my time with anyone in Hogwarts ever again, with one exception because he knew to believe me. Harry may not have believed initially, but at least he stood by me when no one else here did. When I leave, I want you to take a good look at yourselves and determine whether the person you see is the person that you wanted to be. Did you want to be a bigot, a torturer, a person who acts on pure impulse, a potential murderer? Did you want to condemn an innocent person simply because a source you know has lied horrendously in the past has said something you thought you wanted to hear? Then ask yourself why you wanted to hear it."

She sighed, strength quickly ebbing, presence collapsing into a lost little girl with bushy hair and a hollow face. "Professor Dumbledore, I would like to talk to you now, in your office, about completing my N.E.W.T.s early and leaving Hogwarts."

Carefully, as though she had run a marathon, she made her way through the people that littered the ground. No one moved; no one tried to trip her. They just stared at her, mouths and eyes wide open – maybe sad, maybe angry, but she did not care anymore. Professor Dumbledore, too, headed toward the back exit, and he met her in the corridor outside of the Great Hall, matching her quick strides that were masking an increasing fatigue. God, that took so much energy out of her, and she did not feel any better. She felt empty, as though something had been torn from her. And she felt cold. They were silent, the two powerful mages, until they reached the griffin that let them through when Dumbledore told it the password.

"Don't sit behind the desk," Hermione said, aware that she was giving orders to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. "You are not going to say anything about Voldemort, because you let it happen, and there is no excuse for what you did. No prophecy can change the face that you could have killed him then and there, or you could have told me."

"You were already deep in the Dark Arts, Hermione, I was not sure if I could…"

"Shut up," Hermione said. "You _expected_ me to go to his side, didn't you? Nod or shake your head."

His lips thinned, but he nodded.

"You did not have enough confidence to believe that I could have put the burgeoning Dark Arts within me to good use. Why?"

"Because you…" Dumbledore began.

"Reminded you of Tom Riddle? Professor Snape?" Hermione asked.

Dumbledore's countenance was cold, and power was beginning to emanate from him as power had emanated from Hermione in the Great Hall. But he nodded in response to Hermione's inquiry.

"Well, guess what, Professor," Hermione said. "I'm not either of them. I'm Hermione Granger. I did not ever _want_ to follow the Dark Arts. I wanted to control them, counter them, not use them. That makes me different from Voldemort or Professor Snape. And I'm sorry I wasn't priority enough for you to think about my individuality."

"Hermione, I cannot allow…" Dumbledore bellowed.

"You will allow!" Hermione shouted back. "You may have gone through the war with Grindelwald as well as Voldemort, but you don't have a single clue either. You don't see me any more than you see Harry. You never did."

"Voldemort has changed you," Dumbledore said. "He has won."

"He will _never_ win as long as I'm alive," Hermione hissed. "I'm never going to be on his side, and you and he have collaborated beautifully to make sure I'm never on your side. But one way or another, I'm going to fight him. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I am going to fight him somehow."

"Miss Granger…"

"No," Hermione said, slamming her fist down on the desk and waking Fawkes from his nap on the perch. "Listen to me. I don't care how you do it, but you are going to arrange the N.E.W.T.s so that I can individually take the tests as soon as possible. I am not going to leave my room, and only a few people know my password. I will have house elves send me food, but I no longer want to associate myself with Hogwarts students or teachers. Do you understand that?"

Dumbledore did not respond, but he emitted frigid waves of dissociation. She wondered if he was going to curse her. If he even thought about it, she would curse him first. She had little to lose.

"And after I take the N.E.W.T.s, I am leaving this school and never coming back. Ever. Have I made myself perfectly clear, Albus? You will do these things?"

Dumbledore looked down at her, a little girl and a hard woman trapped in the same tortured body, and for a moment he felt real pity.

"This is amenable," he replied.

Hermione seemed to slump upon his answer. She turned to exit his office. Before she left, she said, "You know I've been on your side all along. But your side won't have me anymore. I'll not work against you. Just… leave me alone when I'm gone. I am no threat. I won't join _him_."

She felt herself falling apart as she spoke, and she fled from the office, ran full speed all the way to her rooms, gasping out "Joan of Arc" and slamming the door behind her. The cauldron was still shaking with Howler explosions, and Crookshanks was hiding under her bed, but otherwise, all was well and peaceful, the eye in the midst of a storm.

She shed her clothes, the school robes that she had bought was seemed like centuries ago. They were torn now from the abuse, and she felt no guilt in throwing the fine material into the well-fed fire. She retrieved her folded pajamas from the bed and slipped them over her body as though she were slipping on comfort and peace and innocence. The bed looked so soft now, so inviting with all the covers and pillows.

But something was out of place. A bundle wrapped in parchment, obviously sent by owl but not put into the makeshift furnace she had created from the cauldron. When she read the outside of the parcel, she knew why – the owl had been given specific instructions on where to put the parcel. _Miss Hermione Granger at Hogwarts School, on the bed in her bedroom._

The script was vaguely familiar, but it did not imbue her with any sense of danger, so she opened the parcel. There sat a cloak, a perfectly ordinary cloak. She picked up her wand from the bedside table, where she had put it as she had removed her clothes, and cast a few spells to determine whether there was any charm or curse on the garment. The cloak was completely unenchanted.

She unfolded it and held it to the light. It was too long for her. Much too long. And it smelled different, not like bought clothing, but rather like worn clothing, the particular smell of the wearer…

Revelation stopped her breath, but only for a moment. Then she wrapped the cloak around her and climbed into the bed, her body, heart, and mind troubled, but at least comforted and familiar. She fell asleep eventually, embraced by the cloak that smelled of the Dark Lord.


	22. Chapter 21 Interlude

**Title:** Abyss (21)  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, FB, QTTA, OoTP  
**Summary:** Hermione has been rejected by the Order and begins to sneak around. She acquires an odd familiar that becomes a man by night. Kidnapping, betrayal, and unsaid words. Based on Maid of Many Names' never-finished 'Degree' and 'Nonpartisan. Eventually Hermione/Voldemort. Very dark.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author notes:** This chapter has been edited.

**Chapter 21 – Interlude**

She waited quietly against the wall next to the door of Professor Snape's classroom. She was not thinking of anything because she was afraid of what would surface in the rolling interior of her mind. For the last week, she cloistered herself in her Head Girl chambers, applying herself to studying for the Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s. Just that afternoon, she finished the last practical and written exams. She could only feel fortunate that the quills the examiners used were specially charmed by Professor Dumbledore in front of her so that they could only write down objective reports rather than allow the obvious biases of the examiners color her marks.

Because of her urgency to leave Hogwarts, the examiners had to present their results within a twenty-four hour period. It was a stressful grind for the examiners, but she knew instinctively that when Professor Dumbledore sent her the scores via one of the school owls, she would take the highest academic honor that Hogwarts had to give when she left. She sensed that the hostility Dumbledore showed her in the office had decreased, just as her own anger had dissipated. Their owls – the safest mode of communication – were cordial, not overly polite, and sometimes he asked her a question regarding her time before Voldemort, the time for which he had expressed his suspicions. She answered him as honestly as she could. When he stopped signing his letters 'Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,' and instead as 'Professor Dumbledore,' she knew that he had, in part, forgiven her for her outburst. She knew enough to accept his forgiveness, but she herself was not ready to forgive. He respected her silence in this matter and did not press her. She was glad. After the power surge in the Great Hall, she felt like she was going to break, shatter into pieces if someone even looked at her or said anything to her.

She still received Howlers. She had cleaned out her cauldron five times from all the explosions which meant that she needed to open the Howlers that came at those times. She tried as best as she could to just hear the shriek and not the words. At that pitch, it was easier. She also received support mail from a few people, some from people who read the _Quibbler_ – those made her smile despite the ridiculousness of the article – and some from the Order. Arthur Weasley's letter was given to her during one of the interludes. Fred and George and he supported her, but Molly, with her protective tendencies, was inclined to overreact – Hermione read through the lines that Mrs. Weasley never wanted Hermione to even think about a member of their family. She was, however, touched that Mr. Weasley dropped a line for her against Mrs. Weasley's wishes. And Hermione felt it best that she be on the same side as the twins.

Harry visited her every day after classes, ostensibly to study for the N.E.W.T.s. Hermione still retained a fraction of her old self – she would not tell Harry a single hint about the content of the exams she had taken that days. She liked those times – they made her feel as if Ron would burst in at any moment and cajole Harry and her into a swim in the lake, a prank, or just something random, impractical, and fun that would take up the rest of the day. Something that they could do together. She missed being a part of three – it was as though an integral piece of them had been ripped out. They were not entirely whole without one of them there providing what the others lacked.

Whenever she mentioned Ron's absence, Harry's face went hard.

"He's a prat, Hermione," Harry said. "He'll realize how awful he's been ten years from now, and he's going to hate himself. Don't even think about him right now."

Harry's vehemence toward a boy that had until a few days ago been his best friend even beyond Hermione's status scared her, but she did not comment.

Sometimes, Harry asked if it was okay if he brought someone with him. Hermione told him so many times that she was not ready, that everyone else was not ready to see her again – she was worried that the minute they came into her rooms, they would hex her or worse, kill her. She kept seeing the crowd that kicked her, Nott kicking her, their hateful words and accusations, the _Prophet_ headline, the mob outside the Ministry, the Death Eaters laughing at her… When she began to have trouble breathing, Harry knew she was not ready. However, she promised to at least talk to Ginny if Ginny gave Harry her wand first and if Harry stayed there with her… eventually. But at Harry's gentle coaxing, she did relent to see Luna Lovegood – the girl had never been devious or subtle, and Harry knew that she wanted only to talk to Hermione.

She had walked into Hermione's Head Girl rooms without any sort of hesitation when Harry brought her in. Her wand was tucked in its traditional place behind her ear, and she did not quite look at Hermione as much as through her.

"You didn't marry Voldemort, then," Luna said matter-of-factly. "Daddy sometimes lets these things happen. Wilhemina Barrie is too romantic – Daddy knows that. But you don't have a wedding ring."

"I don't think our dispositions are compatible either, Luna," Hermione said, keeping a straight face. She was suddenly glad that Harry convinced her to let Luna in. Luna may be a bit off, but her heart was always in the right place, she sometimes saw things that others did not.

"You never know," Luna replied. "My mother didn't believe in half the things Daddy does. Do you ever talk to your parents now?"

Luna's sobering question brought Hermione back to a reality she still had not faced. "No," she whispered.

"Oh. It helps. It's always helped me," Luna said.

"Thank you," Hermione managed through the lump she was trying to suppress. She did not want those memories again… not those memories…

Luna stood to leave. "Harry told me not to stay long, so I'm going to go now. They shouldn't have kicked you."

"Thank you, Luna."

Luna left humming, and Hermione swallowed a few times before regaining a semblance of composure. She gave Harry a small smile to alleviate his concern. No one else had been in the rooms but Harry and herself since then. She _was _going to talk to Ginny before she left. Ginny had not been so violent in the Great Hall, not like Ron, maybe she would understand a little after her experience with the diary… Hermione hoped.

The door to Professor Snape's classroom opened, jolting Hermione from her trance-like contemplations, and a crowd of students eager to escape the dread Potions Master bustled out. When they saw her, some of them paused or skirted away, but no one said anything. She saw a few eyes drift down to her arm, like most people's eyes drifted up to Harry's scar. She hid the Dark Mark under one of her long-sleeved robes – everyone knew it was there, but she did not like to be reminded, and she thought that some people respected her more for hiding it than displaying it.

She did not raise her eyes to their curiosity but let her hair shield her face until all the students were gone. It had grown out some since she had been taken from Lucius' care, but she would cut it again after she left Hogwarts. She knocked on the half-open door.

"Come in, Miss Granger," Professor Snape replied. He did not look up as she slid into the room and shut the door behind her.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?"

Professor Snape set his quill beside the two stacks of essays on his desk. "I was more under the impression that you wanted to see me."

"You sent the owl," Hermione said.

"And Lupin sent me a strongly-worded letter that told me in no uncertain terms that someone needed to show outward support." He sat back in his chair and looked at her. "You never sought me out, and I assumed that you did not need anything from anyone at Hogwarts. That was quite a performance you gave in the Great Hall."

"You weren't there."

"I don't need to be there to know what happened."

"I could have used your support then."

"And what would be the point of _my_ support, Miss Granger?" Snape snapped, leaning forward. "I would never deny that I am singularly the most hated teacher at Hogwarts as it is, with a reputation that hints at suspicions that I have tried to quell enough to keep parents from owling the Headmaster. I have not protected my position here at Hogwarts or lost the opportunity to spy for the Headmaster only to have Weasley or Longbottom accuse me of being a Death Eater and forcing me to show my own Mark, causing _both_ of us to be utterly useless and ostracized."

"So you just wanted to save your own skin?" Hermione muttered.

"Everyone tries to save their own skin… including you. We know better than to pretend we're a part of some glorious cause when, in the end, we want to survive." Professor Snape stood up from behind his desk. "You can come closer, Miss Granger. I will not hit you or hurt you in any way."

Hermione took a few steps closer. "It will take a while to get used to this. I just… you… I can't… not yet."

Snape did not reply, simply waited for her.

"I don't suppose there is anyway to get rid of it," she said. Snape's eyes followed her hand as it touched her left forearm gently.

"There are a few options, none of which you would be willing to try any more than I was willing to," he said. He walked into his storeroom – the student storeroom, not even his private stores – and came out with a thin flask in his hand. "How much do you want the Dark Mark to disappear?"

Hermione stared at him, unsure of how to respond.

"Even if it goes away, everyone else will see it anyway because they know it was there. They won't care… so it is your decision only." Snape set the flask on the desk next to Hermione and stepped back. "In that flask is one of the strongest corrosive potions that I've managed to concoct… completely undiluted and contained only by cut diamond glass. It will burn through the Dark Mark and will likely burn through your entire arm if it isn't countered with sodium chloride."

"Liliath poison?"

"One of the many ingredients," Snape said. "As a Potions Master, I cannot lose my arm, so burning the Dark Mark or cutting off my arm by a St. Mungo's operation is impossible if I wish to continue my profession. Even then, I cannot guarantee that his summons and connection to you will be any less strong. Some people still feel limbs that they've lost, and I would not put it past the Dark Lord to maintain the Mark's connection even after it is physically detached from the body. I, for one, am not willing to risk it. Do you really want to be rid of the Dark Mark so badly that you will possibly destroy the opportunity for a future profession?"

Hermione looked at the diamond flask, transfixed by the clear liquid within. Somehow, she could not reach for it, although her fingers twitched and the part of her that was battered, broken as a china doll thrown to the floor, cried for her to do it – _you have nothing left to lose_.

"What professions, Professor?" Hermione asked, forcefully looking away from the flask. "Unlike you, I don't have the fortune of anonymity, ambiguity, or alliances. I have no education with which I can work in the Muggle world, and I cannot think of a single wizarding business or government position or whatever that would me – not when they know."

"Let's give up then, Miss Granger," Snape replied impatiently. "Together. Let's pretend that the world will continue to revolve around us and our problems, and let's balk at every possible option that we have just because we fear failure and rejection, as we have since we were twelve years old and out of which we should have grown by now."

"That's unfair, Professor."

"Of course it is," he snapped. "But it's true. Out of everyone in this damn school, there are only two people to be pitied, and Potter is not one of them, nor is Longbottom, nor Chang, nor anyone who has fought or lost someone in this war. Nor I. The Headmaster… and you. I have seen and participated in Death Eater torture. Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and MacNair are skilled beyond the ken of the toughest Auror, but even they pale in comparison with the Dark Lord when he focuses on a victim.

"But the fact that you are to be pitied does not mean that I _will_ pity you, especially if you moan like you do and protest that there is nothing left for you. There are always options open, and with your much vaunted intelligence, I would have thought that you would be pursuing your options." He sneered down at her. "Do not tell me that you've been sitting around your room doing nothing."

Hermione stared back with a spark of fire in her eyes. "I've been studying for the N.E.W.T.s, even though I don't know whether they will do me any good. For all I know, I'll be in Knockturn Alley, doing what Lucius taught me to do because no one will be looking at my arm in a hovel…"

"That is _enough_, Miss Granger," Snape said.

"Why? Don't I deserve a little self-pity, at least for a little while, Professor I-can't-forget-something-that-happened-when-I-was-in-school-so-now-I'll-treat-Harry-like-he's-dirt?"

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor."

"Ah," Hermione snarled. "The old someone-hit-a-nerve response. Do you have any suggestions for a profession, Professor, or are you just going to insult my method of avoiding the inevitable mourning period I'll have to go through when I let myself?"

"Another fifteen points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger, and may I remind you that you are still a student of this school and that I am your professor." He glared at her. "If you are so insistent on sulking when you could have the world under your thumb, refrain from doing so until you are out of this classroom and out of my earshot. Then you can throw yourself to the wolves for all I care. Someone who can outshine the Headmaster in a battle of powers for a few seconds should be able to control her emotions for that long at least."

"What professions, Professor Snape?" Hermione said, closing her eyes and reigning in her frustration. She did not know it, but she was shaking. Snape watched her quiver like a dandelion and wondered whether she would attack him or collapse into herself. Her face was still pale, as it had been ever since she had been rescued from the warehouse, but there were still remnants of the incident in the Great Hall – the slight limp she had when she walked in, bruises along the bared skin of her shoulders, collarbone, neck, face, and hands, simply the way she held herself. Snape inwardly admired her persistence in the face of her continued torture and exile when she looked like a single breath would destroy her, but he would never tell her that.

Snape reached behind his desk and took out four letters. He handed them to Hermione, who scanned the contents before glancing up at him in confusion.

"The Department of Mysteries could not care less if you were a former Death Eater, a Death Eater toy, a Death Eater as it is, or a house elf. They make their selections based on a number of anonymous aptitude tests and assign you to your field of study after a thorough mind copying and descrying. Your Dark Mark will mean nothing to them if you are loyal to their Department, which acts independently from the rest of the Ministry, albeit they usually have the same goals. That is one option."

"Where did you get these letters?" Hermione asked.

"The Headmaster and I sent your academic scores to the various management offices – the results of your N.E.W.T.s should follow. The Headmaster owed me a favor." Snape sat back against his desk. "Another option is to work for Ollivander. It is not the rewarding experience I'm sure you were looking for, but he is a natural Legilimens, Every time he looks in your eyes, he will see your innocence. The damning authority of the Dark Mark is no match for him – he gave the Dark Lord the power to create the Dark Mark. He is neutral ground, both for the Dark Lord and the Headmaster.

"That letter," Snape said, nodding at the parchment covered in spiky green and gold script, "is from Gringotts. They are particular about their employees, and it is possible that you are not exactly what they are looking for, especially because the number of things that you can do are limited, and many are what goblins can do themselves. You cannot travel, and that is one of the primary reasons they hire a witch or wizard. However, they, too, are creatures that neither side is willing to incite into a counter-rebellion against both of them. They may find a use for you."

"This one is still sealed," Hermione said, taking out a powder blue envelope sealed by a caduceus.

"That one is Lupin's doing," Snape said with a touch of his old sneer on his face. "With his condition, he has certain… contacts."

"St. Mungo's?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Think, Miss Granger," Snape snapped. "St. Mungo's would never let you near their facilities, even for research purposes only. Their seal is a wand crossing a bone. Think."

When no inspiration was forthcoming, Snape raised an eyebrow. "Something that our Miss Granger does not know. Maybe we all misjudged your abilities."

Hermione ignored him and opened the letter. It relieved her to read something that was not threatening her or screaming obscenities.

_Miss Hermione Granger,_

_Our mutual friend, Remus Lupin, informed us of the true nature of the kidnapping that the newspapers left unsaid. He also told me of your unusual brilliance, logic, resilience, perseverance, and strength of will and character. I know Remus well enough to tell when he is sincere or exaggerating – he was not exaggerating, and I must admit that your plight intrigues even me._

_Miss Granger, I belong to a healing order known as the Medicus. As a Muggle-born witch, I suppose you have never heard of us – many wizards try to forget that we exist because to dwell too much on what we stand for and what we are capable of strikes fear in their hearts, and for the most part, they leave us alone. Our reputation, although beyond reproach in reality, is often scorned._

_The Medicus Order is not an easy Order into which you can be initiated. It requires a degree of callousness and cynicism, and yet an unfailing optimism, compassion, and tenderness. It is not an easy life and should not be entered into lightly. However, I doubt that you, after all that you have been through, would enter anything lightly._

_It is possible, Miss Granger, that we could use your talents. There are sacrifices – sacrifices that you might not be willing to take – so if you decide that the Medicus Order is something you wish to consider or pursue, you may request an appointment through Remus. An owl knows how to contact us, but I would rather hear from you in a less impersonal manner. Should you make your decision in our favor, you will be given a more thorough explanation about what being a Medicus means._

_Remus will tell you of the risks and sacrifices required of you if you decide to join the Medicus Order, at least as much as he knows. If you still wish to join us, you have already crossed one of the biggest obstacles. Your time with Lord Voldemort also works in your favor – we know that you can be focused and sane even in the face of extreme adversity, and you know when desperate measures must be taken and how to go about it without losing your head._

_You have also, as Remus says, been put under Ministry surveillance. __We can remove that surveillance_

_Best of luck in your decision and in the time ahead of you, Hermione,_

_Medicus Shannon Langley_

_Elder of the Medicus Order_

"Professor, what exactly is the Medicus Order?" Hermione asked slowly. "Why did Remus…?"

"The Medicus," Snape said, standing up and pacing. "I don't know what possessed the wolf to go after the Medicus…"

"Professor."

"If you join the Medicus Order," Snape said, "more people will despise you for it."

Hermione thought for a moment. "That won't make much of a difference, sir. Will _you_ despise me for it?"

Snape gave her a calculating look, as though he could not quite believe that she would still care about his approval. "I do not know much about that Order, only rumors. They are healers – not like the healers in St. Mungo's. They are far more powerful and know different tricks of the trade. The Medicus are almost entirely without bureaucracy. Like the Department of Mysteries, they do not answer to the Ministry. Like Ollivander, neither side is willing to arouse their wrath. They are not neutral, Miss Granger. They are nonpartisan. Even if they wished to choose a side, they simply cannot. I've heard that they are paid well by their patrons and clients – it is a lucrative profession, but one with little honor in the wizarding world."

"I'm not sure I understand why."

"If you were to become a Medicus and were given a client – I don't know how the Medicus is chosen for each client, but it is supposed to be objective and final – you would have to serve that client, be he a member of the Order of the Phoenix or a Death Eater. Nonpartisan, Miss Granger. And there are instances when life-long bonds are requested. Imagine being bound to Lucius Malfoy for the rest of his days, healing his every malady, if he were willing to pay the price for a Medicus."

Hermione was shivering. She clutched her cloak closer about her. "I don't think… I suppose that is the sacrifice she mentions in the letter. I don't… I don't know whether I would be willing to do that."

"Lupin is out of his mind," Snape said impatiently. "He clearly has some ivory tower notion that the Medicus are inadvertently on a side. They are concerned only for healing – healing for its own sake, no discernment. It is a foolish notion."

Hermione stared at the letter one more time before tucking it into her pocket with the others. "Which one do you recommend, sir?"

"The Department of Mysteries," Snape replied. "There is more scope for your talents there, and they are not preoccupied with such impossible ideals – they know which side they are on, and many are friends of the Headmaster, if not members of the Order. They actively work against the Dark Lord – it is where you want to be, Miss Granger, if you wish to continue your fight against him."

Hermione heard his words and processed them, but throughout his answer, she could not get the last line of the Medicus letter out of her mind: _We can remove that surveillance_ And unlike Professor Snape, Hermione knew that Lupin had a better grasp of her personality and the reality of the Medicus Order than Snape did. She also thought that he maybe knew a fuller breadth of the Medicus Order's intentions than Snape's knowledge of rumors – she knew firsthand, as should Snape, that rumors, even informed rumors, were notoriously distorted.

"I'll consider these options, Professor," Hermione said, a little distracted. "Thank you very much for helping me. I wish I could tell you what it means to me, but I suspect you understand, so I won't… ramble sentimentally like a Gryffindor. Sorry, sir."

"Miss Granger," Snape said, enunciating his syllables so that Hermione would not miss what he was saying, "you were telling the truth. There is no nobility in believing the truth. I owed you a favor for mistaking your position with the Dark Lord during the initiation. Remember, Miss Granger, that although I am a member of the Order, if I were still a spy during your imprisonment, I would have been one of the Death Eaters torturing you. There is no apology or gratitude necessary for simple coincidence."

"Still, Professor, thank you," Hermione murmured before ducking her head and turning to leave, her cloak fluttering about her feet.

"And Miss Granger," Snape said.

Hermione stopped halfway to the door and looked back at him.

"Do not think I do not know what the Dark Lord smells like," he said.

Hermione glanced down at the altered hem of the cloak, then hurried from the classroom.

FINI

_He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you._–Friedrich Nietzsche


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